


The Rebirth of a Band

by Ducip



Category: One Direction (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-30 00:17:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducip/pseuds/Ducip
Summary: A famous boy band on the brink of breaking up decides to mentor a new band into existence. Unfortunately, they run into conflict as one of the members has a different idea for the new band's creative style. This member begins to have epiphanies about his own fame and creativity.





	The Rebirth of a Band

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a conceptual story - complete fiction. If you have comments on the story, please keep them polite/constructive.

Chapter 1: Why We Did It

Luxury and fame.

It was about luxury and fame.

I didn’t want to admit it to myself. It was always deep down in there. There, meaning my mind. 

Music.

It was about the music.

This is what I told myself. It was about my love of music. It was always deep down in there. There, meaning my heart.

I came from a small town in England, of humble roots. I was just a young teenage boy, looking for a way to become a singer. That’s how it always starts. Humble roots. Desire. And a little bit of talent with a lot of potential. All of that can go a long way. And it didn’t hurt that I was relatively cute. Ugly is bad. Ugly is a death sentence – unless you’re unbelievably talented. But cute – the world can work with cute.

I shouldn’t have deluded myself. I was old enough to understand how the goal of a singer develops. This is not ancient times. We live in a world of mass technology. Everything a person does can be splashed over the internet, and you become famous almost overnight, and then you become rich, and then you enjoy the luxury and fame. And there is no long trek to that point as in previous times. There once was a boy band, called The Beatles. It was a truly organic evolution of will and talent. They had to do all the work, of actually playing instruments, writing songs, becoming friends with each other, finding the right blend of band members, looking for someone who would believe in them, playing poor venues, still looking for someone who would believe in them and sign them to recording contracts, having them record songs – some written by others, but many of them written by the members of the band, John Lennon and Paul McCartney. And they did all the concerts, travelled the world, endured all the screaming fans, made funny movies and quipped witty phrases to the press… Then they started to grow beyond their original music – they grew into their own voice and vision… They became more than just a boy band – they became artists. And that’s when they stopped doing concerts, stopped drowning their brains in the screams of fans. They wrote music that was more serious, more inward-looking. They finally got to a point where they looked so deeply inward, that they didn’t know each other anymore. And they went their separate ways… Paul explored the music that expressed his vision of optimism and romantic love, while John explored his cynicism and love for humankind. And just like that, The Beatles were a band no more.

But this is not a story about The Beatles. This is a story about me. No, that’s not completely true. This is a story about us. I am also part of a band.

My name is Gahlay. It’s short for Galahad – more of a derivative, but no one calls me Galahad. The other guys have great names – Lugus, which for us became Lucas, Arthur, Tristan, and finally, Richard – which is probably the only non-mythological name among us.

Ironically, even though our names somehow came together, we were not originally “together”. We didn’t know each other, but when we got together it happened so fast, that we were blind-sided by success. We welcomed it with open arms, but we also had no control over it. We did at the start—we had control at the start. At least I thought we did. But looking back, I am starting to doubt that we ever had control. I think, if we did, it was for a mere mythological second in time, when there was a love of music. Deep inside of our hearts.

But our generation is a bit too realistic to truly say that. We know that deep down there is a dream of luxury and fame.

And that’s what we got.

This was the musing I went through as I sat in my living room in my luxurious mansion (riches had allowed me to trade up from my childhood simplicity), watching old videos that spun the story of our band in fantastic, amusing, and sometimes honest ways. I sometimes looked at these videos for a smile and a good laugh, but other times I looked at them just to reinforce my anger and regret. I didn’t want to remember, but these videos forced me to remember not only the concepts of our band’s fame, but sometimes the specific minutes – with an all-too-painful clarity.

When I tired of seeing my young self, flouncing and bouncing around with boundless smiles, I switched to my social media pages. I was always careful to distance myself from these posts. Some of them were just normal posts of appreciation and recognition, but then others… There was profanity and meanness among the posters that shocked me. In others, there were the girls who used my last name as their social media moniker and wrote cute things like “I love you” with hearts, and I could imagine them writing their first name with my last name in their school notebooks, dreaming – in a futile sense, I’m afraid – that one day they would be my wife. Then there were the posts that were blatantly sexual, and they made me cringe; I could only imagine what they were thinking, and the “obsessed fan” type was something I had run up against quite a few times. It was usually manageable, but sometimes it scared me. The scenes have escaped me, but the bodily sensations of being grabbed at and having clothes ripped from me remain.

Then there was the type I was looking at now. The girl had written at length and in an empathetic way about the challenges of trying to be an artist in today’s music world, and encouraged me to stay true to myself. As I read her words, they reverberated inside my heart. I thought about responding to her post, and had written a few words – but then I deleted them. I thought about clicking on something to show I appreciated her comment, but finally, I just exited out of the page and moved on to something else. Ultimately, whatever form the words took from these fans, I had learned a hard lesson – they were just a superficial way to get to me. The entire irony of this was, I had no desire to get close to this person I had become.

 

Chapter 2: The Discovery of Potential

I said this was a story about us. And I meant it. I want to be totally honest about this story. So, I guess I should say that we were at the point where it was our turn to contribute to the cycle of band dissolution.

The guys and I (and when I say “the guys”, I mean Lucas, Arthur, Tristan and Richard – and of course myself) were sitting around one day, just reminiscing about our music career, and we heard this boy. We were in one of those London cafés where the ambience is really laid back, people chatting, laughing, making noise, and the occasional person playing music. This one guy was with a friend of his, and he was strumming on a guitar. Really softly and slowly at first. Then he also started to sing…It was almost like that Roberta Flack song. Still, it was so subtle that we barely even noticed it at first. We were so immersed in our own memories.

“Yeah, I remember when we pulled that,” said Lucas, the only truly blond-haired member of our group. He laughed his natural, Irish laugh.

Arthur, feeling the scruff of his 3-day-old unshaven face, nodded. “Yeah… That was quite hilarious. We don’t do things like that anymore.”

Richard, the petite, sharp-faced member of our group, just stared for a few seconds, then said, “So what do you think we should do.” He didn’t say it as a question, because I guess we all knew that there was no more question left in this case.

It was Tristan, the dark-haired member of our group, who got our attention, because he kept turning toward something.

“Hey, did you just hear what I said?” asked Richard.

Tristan looked at him, and just seemed to ignore him at the same time. Instead, he turned toward me.

“Gahlay… Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” I said. But I already knew what he was talking about.

That’s when we all got kind of quiet, and started listening intently. It only took me a few seconds to immerse myself fully in the sound. In another place of the café was a guy softly playing the guitar and singing a song. I liked it. I realized after a minute that I could have kept listening to him without interruption. For our generation, that’s not typical.

“He’s really good,” I said, impressed.

“Ssshhh, Gahlay,” said Tristan, and Lucas softly punched me in the arm. Some people were looking at us, and the females were looking animated.

“Remember to control your voice. I don’t want to have to do another ditch and dive,” said Richard.

Lucas just looked amused.

“Sorry,” I whispered. We were really trying to remain incognito. It’s nice to be able to hang out in public again once in a while, but we can’t do that if we draw attention to ourselves. Sunglasses, plain clothes and bulky hooded jackets, boring hairstyles, and sometimes faces that constantly are looking down with an almost expressionless visage – this is the self-suppression that we have had to practice. The problem was, my natural voice is sometimes too powerful, and I forget to whisper. I am not bragging when I say this, it is just the feedback of response to my fame, but my voice is low and strong, what I guess women consider “sexy” (whatever that means). I also have very nice, full hair, which just by my normal care falls too nicely in place. And my height is what a lot of women like. My build is not thin or stout – it kind of has a universal appeal. And then my face is considered handsome – women like my eyes and my smile… or my serious expression. It’s inescapable. I can’t make a face that isn’t considered attractive.

I wrote that I wanted this to be honest, and if this honesty tends to obscure humility, then I need to write what needs to be written. I did not choose my genetic makeup, and I cannot help that I grew into a person that women find attractive. I can’t control it. I don’t regret it, but I don’t think it has always been an advantage. Like in the case of this comfortable chat with the boys in the band. They had grown out of their “boy band cuteness” that made us so popular to begin with, and some of them were looking a lot older (Arthur and Richard). On the other hand, according to the feedback from the public, I guess I had graduated from “cute” to “handsome”. Perhaps someday I will grow out of that, and this part of the story will seem irrelevant to my life. But for now, it’s part of the story. And also at the moment, it was an inconvenience. My voice drew attention to us, and then my face was doing the rest. I quickly looked down, waiting out the attention.

“I’m sorry for that,” I whispered again.

“What do you think of him,” Tristan said again, to all of us. We listened and we watched. He was not only nice to listen to, he was also graceful. And not bad to look at. That last point was important. Because everything else can be fixed with training.

Lucas seemed to have an idea, but he wouldn’t express it. Arthur may have been a bit jealous. And Richard wasn’t really concerned with that kid. I could tell he wanted to return to the question he had put on the table.

“I think he’s quite good,” I said, softly.

“So what do you think,” added Tristan.

“I think we need to make a decision,” said Richard. He was a good guy, but sometimes he was impatient.

I responded to Tristan: “I think there is potential.”

Lucas looked confused, and Arthur looked around the table, waiting to see which conversation would prevail. Richard didn’t want to give in.

“Forget it. Just give us an answer. Gahlay, Tristan.”

I think there was an unspoken understanding that whatever Tristan and I decided would seal the fate of the group. We had garnered the most popularity among fans. Lucas and Arthur seemed impassive – they were letting fate decide their future. Richard was trying to give Fate a long-needed nudge.

“Have you ever dreamed of being a mentor?” said Tristan.

Now Lucas and Arthur both looked confused. I smiled. Richard shook his head.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“Think about what? Lucas asked innocently.

“I think it’s an interesting opportunity,” I said, happy to finally be off the other conversation. There was part of me that wasn’t ready to let go.

“What is this?” Lucas was beginning to insist.

“Explain to the two at this table who are not getting the clue,” said Richard.

I kept my voice low and explained for Tristan. “It might be interesting to mentor a band, to help launch the careers of a group of young musicians and singers. You know, kind of like be a producer who discovers the next great thing, like what happened to us, but with better mentoring.”

Lucas and Arthur both looked at me with jaws half open. Then Arthur seemed to be considering this, and his jaw closed firmly. His hair had recently been cut close, and he ran his fingers through his scalp with a pained look, like he was missing something. It was no secret that he was not happy that his face had not matured in an attractive way like he had hoped. And it was obvious from what he was about to say. 

On the other hand, Lucas seemed to be considering the idea from a more open mind.

“Why are you suggesting this,” said Richard, not willing to give up without an argument.

Tristan didn’t want to explain. He didn’t get along with Richard too well anymore.

“Because,” I said, “who better to do this, to “discover” the next famous act? Should we just leave it up to Disney? To some Hollywood-type flunky sitting behind a desk with no understanding of music, but with an eye for statistics, public tastes, and money? We experienced the process. We could be true mentors.”

There was something wrong with what I was saying, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. But the boys were not critically analyzing my words. Tristan was nodding, while the other three just sat there, considering. Arthur looked over at the guy, and sighed. He looked back at us – or rather, at me.

“So, you want to mentor a boy band? Just like us? And who is this guy going to be, Gahlay? You? Is he going to be the one that that all the women scream and cry over with every single word he says and every facial expression? Is this why we are picking him? You haven’t outlived your value yet, bloke.”

“Hey, go easy,” said Tristan. He knew I wouldn’t defend myself.

“Just go out there and give’em a smile, and you can get a million pounds,” he continued.

“Regardless, we had a proposition on the table,” said Richard.

“So did we,” said Tristan.

“I say we put it to a vote,” said Tristan, after some seconds of tense silence.

“Ok, but let’s vote on the first question,” said Richard. He took a breath, and said, “So should we do it? Should we dissolve the band? Everyone who agrees, raise their hand.”

We all looked from one to the other. We were sharing memories wordlessly, and somehow, within a matter of 30 seconds, had passed around 6 years of days together. Richard was the only one who had started to raise his hand, then 1/3 of the way up, he clenched his fingers into a fist and the sheer weight of his indecision brought his hand down onto the table.

“What in heaven’s name is wrong with us,” Richard said, putting his head into his hands.

“Ok, now let’s vote on my suggestion,” said Tristan. “If you agree that we should do it, raise your right hand. If you don’t think we should do it, raise your left hand. Essentially, we would still be together, but rather than making music, we will spend some time mentoring this new band.”

“So, should we do it? Raise your hands,” I said.

Tristan and I raised our right hands, while Richard and Arthur raised their left. They didn’t have the will to dissolve the band, but they couldn’t bring themselves to continue it, either. The four of us looked at Lucas, who was sitting there with both of his hands still on the table. He nervously pulled at the charm bracelet that he had worn during our entire time together. He tried to maintain his good-natured smile, but I could tell he was worried. He was a nice Irishman stuck in the middle of 4 warring Brits, and he didn’t want to be a part of it. He looked at Richard and Arthur, then at me and Tristan. He did this a few times, shifting between the two sides. Finally, he raised his right hand.

“Ok then,” said Tristan, trying not to sound self-congratulatory.

“Lucas,” said Arthur, with a bit of exasperation, but also with understanding. He genuinely liked him. We all did.

Lucas explained his choice: “I’m sorry, but I want to do this. But not for the purpose of being a mentor. It’s for us. I want us to try to go back to that place – that moment when we were all together, hugging each other with joy at being brought together.”

It was a beautiful sentiment, but was met by silence. Lucas looked hurt.

I stretched out my hand and put it on his shoulder.

“Ok, Lucas. We are going to try to do that, too.”

Potential. We all had it – once.

We had been five young teenage boys with a love of singing and an excitement over a dream – we dreamed that our singing could make our lives beautiful, and change the world. The televised British talent show for which we had auditioned set us up so quickly for that. At first, we had all been rejected – individually. I remembered standing backstage, just one loser in a herd of rejects. There was nothing left but to go home in defeat. I loved music. And I loved singing. I really did. It was my heart’s desire to be a singer; since I came from such a small town, I felt this had been my only chance to be noticed, and that chance had ended. I was on the point of crying. I was so young, and this disappointment was the biggest of my short life.

Then by some miracle, someone from the show came back and was choosing individuals to go back onto the front stage. There were some girls, but among us boys, they chose 5: me, a dark-haired guy named Tristan, a boy with Justin Bieber styled hair named Arthur, a smiling guy named Richard, and this boy with a mop of blond hair who had come all the way from Ireland named Lugus – but the person with the clipboard calling our names pronounced it “Lucas” – and that’s what stuck. I looked around at the other four guys – some had been crying like me, but Lucas had taken it in stride, and was now quite excited to have his name called. Richard, who was next to him, also became excited. I didn’t understand anything that was going on.

When we stood on the stage, the judges seemed very sympathetic. I admit to being so upset, that I didn’t understand anything they were saying, until they said that they were going to form us (“us” being these 5 strangers who had just met this day) into a group and send us on to the show. All I could understand was that I was going to be on that show after all, and it had everything to do with these four other guys standing near me. I don’t know how the rest of them understood it, but the effect was the same. We were shaking in happiness, jumping around, hugging each other – embracing the sheer joy of the moment through the touch of our irrepressible tangible bodies.

What had they seen in us, specifically? I can’t say. We could sing, but we were not fabulous. We loved singing, but how could that ever have been measured? I loved singing and music so much at that age, I protected my dream like a precious organ that helped me breathe. Could they see that in me, in the others? Did we have it more than the others who could do nothing but walk out the back door in defeat? Was there a special light that had shown in my—in our—eyes? Did it give our singing a special lift that translated itself into a spirit that also uplifted the hearts of the listeners who had judged us?

Did we have all of that, and, perhaps… the right “look”? If I had walked onto that stage with passion and my voice, but with a bit of a limp or a scarred or homely face, what would have happened? Would I have been called back on to that stage?

I try not to think too much about the choices made on that day, choices which were the first which did not belong to us. I loved singing and I loved music, but whatever happened on the stage that day was not the pure result of that love. It was something else. And there were five of us who came together as strangers, and in that moment surrendered the first bit of the purity of that love.

But we all had potential.

 

Chapter 3: Shopping for Potential

“Ssshh, Gahlay. I said keep your voice down,” Richard was reminding me again.

“Ok, just get off my back,” I said. I was tired of having to control my voice in public. “So which one of us is going to go over there and talk to him?”

Richard gave me a caustic look. “I’m not going to do it.”

“Obviously,” said Arthur, “You and Tristan can’t do it. The two of you are too stand-out with your handsomeness. If you stand up and go over to someone and talk, they will recognize you right away.” 

He had a point. Tristan had a darker beauty, but he was also “attractive” and very noticeable.

“And look at you two,” rejoined Tristan, “You both have scruff on your faces, people will look at you for that and recognize you right away after that.”

Richard just gave him a snide look, and Arthur sheepishly rubbed his chin. “I’ve been too lazy to shave,” he chuckled.

“Ok then,” the four of us said in unison, and were shocked that we had done that. It had been a long time since anything came out of us naturally in unison. We looked at Lucas, who took a few seconds to realize everyone was looking at him. He was the most indistinct of the 5 of us, and would blend in to the rest of the patrons.

“What? What’s going on?”

“We want you to go over to that guy playing the guitar and have him come to over here to talk to us.”

“Ok,” he said. Then Lucas looked a bit confused. “Wait a second… What are we doing again?”

While some of the other boys sighed, I quickly re-explained our idea and purpose to him. Lucas went silent for a minute or two. He finally began to realize what our plan was. The silence of our attention became so intense that I could hear a woman a few tables away tapping on her cellphone. I turned toward her, and I saw her looking outside. Was it daydreaming? Distraction? Impatience? Sadness? Or an emptiness of mind and soul? Except for the cellphone, she could have been modeling for an impressionist painting.

“Ok, wait here,” Lucas said, quietly getting up. I snapped out of my reverie to see Lucas get out of his chair, and looked back over at the other table. The woman was gone. And within a few seconds, I realized I missed her. Who was she?

Lucas walked over to the guy’s table so casually that no one noticed. I wish I could have done that. We saw him saying something to the guy, and he looked over at us. He seemed to be thinking for a few seconds, then gestured to his friend that he’d be back in a minute.

We made room for him as he sat down at our table. He looked at us with a blank stare.

“So, this bloke asked me over to your table. I’d like to know why.”

“We heard you playing,” Tristan said. “And we liked your sound – especially your singing.”

“Ok, thanks, but why did you ask me to come over here to tell me that?”

“We have a proposition,” said Tristan.

The guy looked at all of us, one by one.

“Hey, it’s not on me,” said Richard. “I agreed to help, but it’s all on those two.”

The guy looked at me and Tristan. “You know, I’m not into kinky stuff,” he said.

“No, no, it’s not like that,” I said. None of us wanted to say anything out loud, or draw attention to ourselves. So I decided to do the Love, Actually thing and write messages on napkins. I took a few napkins, and while everyone watched me, I wrote down a few notes. Then I showed them to him one by one:

Please don’t react out loud.  
We are interested in your music.  
We want to help start your career.  
Maybe you don’t recognize us with hats, hoods, or sunglasses on.  
Please don’t say anything.

I took my sunglasses off and the guy looked at me.

“OH SH--! YOU’RE IN THAT--”

He stopped himself right away, and put his hand over his mouth. Then he whispered, “You’re in that band.” After looking around at all five of us, he realized and revised in the same whisper, “You guys are that famous band.”

We all silently nodded.

He took a minute to let it sink in. “So you guys are interested in helping me record my music.”

“Well, something like that,” Tristan said.

“Something like that? What do you mean?” he said.

“Well, we were thinking more of creating a band, which you could be part of. It would be a conglomeration of 4 or 5 other talented musicians, put together,” explained Tristan. “You wouldn’t be a solo artist, but part of a music group.”

He was considering this. And in the middle of his considering, I realized that we didn’t even know his name. And I realized, with even more surprise, that perhaps that didn’t matter.

“What’s your name?” I blurted out. The other band members kind of smirked. Was I being naïve?

“Oh,” he said, nervously rubbing his wavy locks of hair, “It’s Ian.”

Richard shook his head, “That won’t do. Not for this century and the young fans.”

“My name? It’s not good? It’s not hip?”

Richard shook his head and mouthed “No”.

“So, I not only have to be part of a group, but I have to change my name?” Ian said.

“Oh, you can keep your legal name,” Richard reassured him, “You just have to change your public name.”

“To what? Something fraternal, like ‘Spaz’?”

Lucas laughed out loud. “Spaz, that’s great.”

“No,” said Tristan. And he looked at Ian for a few seconds. “We don’t want you to lose your identity completely.”

Arthur chimed in, “How about Inaj, kind of exotic, slips smoothly off your tongue?”

Ian looked skeptical. “Inaj. That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It’s not about what sounds good to you, but what sounds good for your fans,” Arthur said like a true salesman.

“Seriously? So what’s your name?”

“Arthur.”

Ian laughed. “And you’re asking me to change MY name?”

“Yes. That’s what I did. You think Arthur was the name they put out there? I became Thuran.”

“Seriously? You let them do that?”

No one denied it. “It was part of the gimmick,” I said. “We were like some ancient knights and kings – it gave us some kind of mystique… I guess.”

“But isn’t Arthur an ancient legend?”

“Yeah, but there can only be one king – and Richard wanted it,” joked Arthur.

Ian got serious again. “And I would be part of a group? But I still control my music and sing my way, right?”

The silence went on for too long.

“Well, we will do our best to accommodate that,” said Tristan. 

I realized that in all this conversation, Lucas was the only one who wouldn’t join in. He was just a bit too honest. I looked at him, and he seemed to be enjoying the banter. It was the first time in quite a while that we had talked and worked toward something as a group. In that instant, I felt a bit sad for Lucas. I wondered what he dreamed of. But I never asked him that. I wondered if, at this point, he would take such a question seriously.

“I’m not too sure,” said Ian. “I love my music.” 

“People aren’t going to hear your music if you don’t get yourself out there,” reasoned Tristan. I wondered if he believed what he was saying.

“Can I talk it over with my friends and get back to you? I am not trying to sound ungrateful, but this is a big decision.”

Richard, like a true businessman, folded his hands like a deal had just been made. “Of course, Ian, you get back to us. Tristan, give him your contact info, since you came up with this idea.”

Tristan wrote something down on a napkin and handed it to Ian. “Ok, here it is. But get back to us within 2 days. After that, the opportunity is off the table.”

I laughed inside myself, but continued to look serious. That was a true business maneuver. I was surprised we weren’t wearing suits. “I hope you can do this,” I said to Ian. “We really liked your sound. And I assure you that you will get to keep your name.” And I found myself wondering if those words were sincere or also business.

When Ian went back to his table, we could see that he was already discussing it with the friend there. We decided to make our exit, before it became too obvious who we were. When we got outside, we all conceded that we would see what fate would bring two days from then.

I didn’t feel like going back home to my mansion. After what had just been decided, I needed to look around and think. I felt I had never done enough of that. I remember a conversation I had had with a childhood friend 4 years earlier. It was during my days of riding in expensive cars; she, however, took the public bus everywhere around London. She had said that it seemed like a graduation of sorts, when she moved from the small village to the big city; instead of walking or riding her bike in the quiet, open air, she was now riding on buses, watching buildings and people go by.

“Doesn’t that ever get annoying?” I had asked her.

“How do you mean?” she had responded.

“Well, you can’t spread out in your own seat like I do, sing your favorite songs, or just chill without anyone around you.”

“Come on, Gahlay. You know there is more to riding from one place to another than that.”

I had looked at her. She said some confusing things sometimes. She saw my expression, and explained.

“When I’m on the bus, it’s an opportunity to think. To contemplate. To daydream. Sometimes as I’m passing by the scenes outside the bus window, the impressions enter my consciousness, and I start thinking about them in creative ways. Or I think about life… the lives of other people, or about the life of the world. Sometimes I dream about the distant past, and wonder what that was like. The possibilities for thinking are endless.” She stopped and looked at my face, which must have still looked confused. “Why… What do you think about when you are going from one place to another, or when you just have some quiet time without interruption?”

The humble girl stymied me. I looked at her, and said, “Well… I’m not thinking of anything. I’m just looking at what’s in front of me.” There was something strange in her expression, so I added, “You know…. I’m living in the moment.”

She was quiet for a while, and I could feel that somehow her life had surpassed my own.

“Hmm… Maybe you should change that approach, Gahlay.”

All that fame I had already achieved within 2 years, and it was that little conversation with that girl I had known years before that had made the biggest change in me. I wonder what would have happened if I had not spoken to her. The worst part was, I could not remember who I was before I became famous. Was I the type of person who pondered life in quiet moments? I had no memory of it. I could not have lived such a vapid existence. But maybe I had. How else could I have rushed so quickly headlong into this manipulated singing career?

The conversation faded into the distance as I came to the park. Old couples walked silently, little kids made bothersome remarks to their mothers, who took all comments in stride and tried to placate them by taking them seriously… I smiled inside – I remembered my own mother doing that. I wish I could have smiled openly – but my smile was too recognizable. The birds took turns flying from the water to the trees, and making a playful circle around the sky, then coming down onto the water. Everything seemed like a 19th century painting; if it had not been for the occasional person robotically looking down at their cellphone and ignoring this idyllic scene, I could have had a delicious sense of falling away from the present time.

With my hair tucked under my non-descript cap and covered by my jacket hood, my sunglasses on, and my body hunched over like some kind of starving vagrant, I walked around the park.

“Excuse me!” A voice from behind me was calling someone.

“Excuse me!” had caught up to me, and touched me on the arm.

“Aren’t you—”

I turned around. Some 40-something year old woman had stopped me, and was now searching my features.

“Oh my god, you are! You’re Gahlay from Different Waves! Oh my god! I love your band!!”

She was trying very hard to sound like a teenager, and I looked around nervously. I’d gone through this conversation before.

“Yes, ssshh, yes, I’m him,” I said softly, trying to calm her down.

“Oh my god, I’ve been wanting to meet you for the past few years! I love your music! I love your band!”

“Thank you. I appreciate—”

“Can I take a picture with you? Can I get your autograph? Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m standing here in front of you. I wasn’t going to come to the park today, but here I am, and here you are – it feels like fate.”

“Like fate?”

“Yeah. Wow. Can I take a picture with you? I have my cellphone here. My friends will never believe I got to talk to you. My god, we all think you’re gorgeous.”

“Ok… thanks. But I can’t take these off,” I pointed to my hat and glasses.

“Oh.” The woman looked frustrated. “You can’t just take them off for a second?”

“I’m sorry… No.”

“Well.” The woman seemed even more frustrated. “I have another idea.” She wrote something down on a piece of paper. “Here is my name and my Twitter account. It would be great if you could just post on it saying how we met, and include a picture of yourself. My friends will just die if they see that.”

A young boy, maybe about 10 years old, came up.

“Hey, Mom, are we going?”

The woman laughed. “This is my youngest. They sure are tenacious.”

“Mom, Dad wants us to bring dinner home. We have to stop at the market still.”

The woman looked at me and rolled her eyes, and sighed. “Family duty calls.” 

She didn’t seem to want to walk away from me.

“Well, it was so nice meeting you. I hope I can meet you again.” And I could tell that she meant it. I merely nodded my head to her as she looked at me one last time. I had seen that look on so many women’s faces. I watched her walk away with the slip of paper still in my open hand. I looked down at it, then slowly folded my fingers around it and stuffed it into my jacket pocket.

After the lady left, I found a secluded spot where only some curious birds could see me. I felt comfortable around these mute creatures. They seemed to be visiting me like they would a prisoner. They tilted their tiny heads as if I were some curious object, jumped around a little, then looked at me again, then flew away.

So it was fate that I met that fan…

Before I could reflect upon and get depressed about that woman and her words, the London sky saved me. It began to rain. I waited for a few minutes for the rain to grow heavier, and could hear the rush of people leaving the park. I came out of my little hiding area and looked around; except for some middle-aged men who were walking away under the cover of umbrellas, everyone had gone. Since middle-aged men were the one demographic I never worried about, I came out into the open. I went to a bench near the pond, which was near a tree, and sprawled luxuriously out. I took off my hat, my dark glasses, my jacket, and spread my legs out, put my arms out on either side of me, and put my head back. The rain had started to pour, and soon I was all alone in this park. The rain fell heavily yet softly on my face and ran in rivulets down my hair until all my hair was soaked; the rain touched the skin on my arms and dripped from my fingertips; it soaked through my shirt and my pants, and I was wet into the deepest surfaces of my body. I breathed deeply. It felt so wonderful to do that, to breathe, I did it again, and again; I was choking on rain and a joy I seldom felt anymore. I know that I had come here to think, but for this moment, I realized how little I had felt lately.

“Breathe, Gahlay, breathe…breathe…breathe…” I was coming to life.

I suddenly remembered Richard holding his head in his hands… “What is the matter with us?”

There was absolutely nothing wrong with us.

 

Chapter 4: Creating the Right Parameters

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

And with those 4 words from Ian, the five of us looked at each other, and the excitement of a new project suddenly took over. This was not going to be us, the boy band controlled by the corporate machine, but we were going to be creators of something new, something exciting. Exciting as we had been? Hopefully more so. John Lennon had once said of The Beatles, “We’re bigger than Jesus.” I’m sure, with what seemed like millions of fans screaming around them and all the attention, it felt that way. I know I felt it. The emotional high from those moments is infectious; and once it gets into your bloodstream, it’s addictive. The fame made you feel like you were up in the air; it was a human grasp of immortality that none of us wanted to lose. I think, the first time my feet hit the ground, and I realized we were fragile humans after all, humans that could be forgotten, that’s when we started to feel like fame junkies – it became something cheap. But this… This chance to create brought us back to an elevated plane. Some of the most famous people throughout history were not rock stars, but mentors…. Jesus was a mentor. Look how many people he inspired. 

So we looked at each other, knowing we had moved on to something even greater than what we had started with.

We were all sitting in my large living room, luxurious yet comfortable. It was the decoration of a multi-millionaire lifestyle, where a person could go beyond the practical in terms of space and aesthetics. It was a soft white with a fireplace, wood flooring, comfortable rugs and beautiful plants, a large shelf with my music collection, and a baby grand piano. The atmosphere was laid-back and friendly.

“That’s just great. Let’s get started by discussing this,” said Richard, who for the first time in a long while was not distracted, but very focused.

Tristan took over.

“Ian, what we would like to do first is hear some of your musical talent. We got a whisper of it in the café that day, but we’d like to hear you, no holds barred, just giving us what you’ve got in the privacy of this room.”

Ian thought for a moment. “Well, let me first do a cover of an artist I like, then I’ll sing a song I’ve kind of been working out on my own.”

We all listened to his cover song, and he did a really good job. His voice was not the kind that belted out songs, but it had a haunting, melodious quality. The original song had been strong, but Ian had turned it into his own style. We all listened appreciatively.

“Yeah, that’s pretty good,” said Richard and Tristan together. Then they looked at each other and kind of chuckled.

Then Ian played the song he was working on. He was really good with his acoustic guitar. I mean, he was REALLY good. And the song was just beautiful. I was nearly hypnotized. I didn’t want it to end. It was kind of a ballad, but with some pep to it. When he finished it, I was the first to respond.

“Wow. That is amazing. That is an amazing song.”

Tristan looked at me, then at Richard, then said to Ian, “That’s good. I think we can do something with that, maybe tame it down a bit.”

“Tame it down a bit?” said Ian. The other 4 of us laughed, but I just stayed silent.

“You know, give it a bit more universal flavor. The important thing is that you want people to access and listen to your music.”

I looked at Tristan. “And,” I added, “you want to express yourself. That’s important, too.”

The other 4 guys laughed at me a bit.

“Oh, Gahlay,” said Richard, in that matter-of-fact tone that came out as condescending sometimes, “Yes. Expression is important. But we’re trying to help him get access and get an audience.”

“Listen, Ian,” said Tristan, “We are going to get together a few more members for this band. In the meantime, you can write some more songs, but we can also locate some very good songwriters. And once we get these other members, we’ll all meet up again to hash out the arrangements, ok?”

“Yes, that sounds great.” 

I could tell that the guy was getting excited about the opportunity to be recorded and have his stuff put out there. I could relate to that. I remember the excitement I felt upon being told by our “mentor” that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity – and I’m sure it was. How many people develop their love of music, and also love to perform, and only are missing the social connection to allow them the chance to bring their dream into reality? That’s what the man and the studio offered to us. We just needed to keep acting happy, keep acting cute, and, most importantly, sing like we were supposed to. And they fulfilled their promise. Everyone loved it. Everyone loved us. At the time, my life felt miraculous. But I couldn’t remember how I had felt before that. I remember being a young teenager, up through the age of 16, really loving the experience of singing. I just don’t remember how I felt about it. Was the love for the singing itself, or the high that I saw in the dream? How could I not remember?

After we had gone through the formality of arranging the next steps, Ian took a casual stroll around the room. He approached my shelves. He looked at me.

“You don’t mind if I have a look?”

“Go ahead,” I said.

He took some time appreciating the musical contents, inserting the occasional “mm hmm” and “cool”. Then he got to the end and took a cd off the shelf and held it up for us.

“Different Waves… This is your stuff.” He looked back at the shelves, and then back at us. “I don’t mean to suggest anything too strongly, but… This cd doesn’t really go with the rest of this music.” He looked straight at me. “You’re into all this other stuff?”

I nodded.

He shook his head. “Life is strange.”

“I hope someday that our cd’s will belong on that shelf,” I said out loud, maybe too honestly.

“We all have dreams,” said Richard suddenly. And none of us was sure if he was insulting me, speaking for the group, or was also saying something deeply honest about himself.

We let Ian leave first, after we had collected his contact info and arranged a date to meet up again; if we didn’t have the other band members by then, we would just contact him and push the date back.

We were all sitting there, brainstorming about Ian and what we would do next.

“He’s great, isn’t he,” said Lucas.

We all agreed to that. Then Richard put in his assessment.

“He’s not strong enough for a front singer, even though he certainly has the look. Right now he’s 18, and he still looks young and fresh. We can’t take too much time selecting these other band members, because we don’t want his looks to spoil. There’s nothing that kills the public’s interest in a band than an aging face.”

The other guys nodded their heads at what Richard had said. 

Looking at me, Richard said, “What’s up with you, Gahlay? You’re not buying it? I would have thought that you of all people would agree to that, considering you haven’t lost one bit of the charm of your appearance, and probably won’t for a long time.”

“That’s probably why he won’t agree to it. He would have to admit the benefit it gives him,” said Arthur.

“Ok, ok, let’s discuss this matter of getting the rest of the band members,” said Tristan. “First of all, should we have a total of 4 or 5?”

“I say 5,” said Arthur. 

“That’s kind of asymmetrical and chaotic, though,” said Richard.

“But it gives people more band members to love, and increases their popularity,” he shot back. “Also, you can get a richer sound from all the voices together.”

“I kind of like the idea of 4 members,” said Lucas.

“Why is that?” said Tristan.

“I don’t know…. I know that 5 members makes a strong band when they all play their own instruments, and then you can have a front singer, but I don’t know what kind of plan we have for these guys. Are they going to be a band that plays their own instruments?”

“Sure, why not.”  
“Definitely not.”

Richard and I had spoken at the same time.

“Why wouldn’t they play their own instruments?” I argued.

“That would be too complicated,” Richard shot back. “We would be searching for too many dimensions of talent. We want something publicly appealing that can grow right away. So, we focus on the obvious requirements: good looks, nice-sounding voices, some pseudo-instrumental ability, and the ability to perform.”

“You mean like a monkey?” I threw back at him. Then I quickly explained, “I don’t see why we can’t build a more professional band here. I’m sure there are plenty of good-looking musicians out there who can do more than lip-sync and have their voices auto-tuned by electronic devices.”

“Ok, Tristan, you need to shed some clarity here,” said Richard, dismissing my argument; “What exactly is our plan for this band? I don’t want to grow old trying to make them famous. Are we talking instant superstardom, or fostering long-range growth in an unknown musical group? Is it going to be Different Waves – the next generation, or U2?”

There was a lot of tense silence after this question. I could tell that Tristan had not considered Lucas’s idea or the fact that I would promote it.

“Well…. Well…” Tristan was caught.

“Well?” said Richard.

“Well, I think we need to focus on the popularity first. We could always foster the talent side of the band later.”

“Good. Ok then,” said Richard. “Let’s decide on 4 members then.”

Tristan wouldn’t look at me. I was fuming inside. What kind of crap were we trying to pull here… We were just going to make another clone of what we had been? Impossible. I thought inside myself, ‘Ok, you guys think that’s what you’re going to do, but that’s not going to happen. Not again.’

“Four members sounds good,” agreed Tristan.

“Yeah, that’s what The Beatles and Led Zeppelin had,” said Lucas enthusiastically.

“We’re not building a group like Led Zeppelin, Lucas,” said Richard. “Didn’t you just hear what we said.”

“Yeah, but I was thinking long-range,” he said, with an optimistic smile.

“Ok, so we need three more members. Where should we go to recruit?”

“How about night clubs? Singing competitions?” Arthur threw out helpfully.

“How about primary schools,” I said. Only Lucas laughed at what I said.

“Perhaps we could spread out to a few different spots in England,” suggested Tristan. “We don’t have to recruit from London only.”

Lucas was thinking just as I was, so I’m glad he said it. “Why don’t we spread out a bit further than that,” he said in his Irish accent. “I was thinking that maybe we could give someone from my own country a chance.”

“I agree with Lucas,” I said. “I think we should try to find a more diverse set of band members. Why not go to Ireland? And, I was thinking that perhaps we could recruit someone from America, as well.”

Lucas nodded his head, but the other 3 guys just looked at me with skepticism.

“America? Are you daft?” said Richard. “Throw an American into the mix? Why don’t we just promote a tossed salad?”

“No, just think of it this way. What do most bands have in common? Most of them are all from the same demographic.” I had to adapt my plan to terms that Richard could relate to. “Wouldn’t it be interesting if we could promote our band as a unique…” I almost said ‘product’, and choked on the word. “As something unique? That could give the band an edge.”

The guys were thinking about this. It was different. How many bands had an international mix? Not too many. There was Fleetwood Mac, but besides them, there were not too many famous bands that could claim such a blend. I could tell that Richard and Tristan, who had in some way become the de facto decision-makers of this enterprise, were mulling over this idea.

“Ok,” Tristan finally said. “We will have four band members, from 3 different countries. Two should be from England, so it’s definitely an English group, but one will come from Ireland, and the other from America.”

We all nodded our heads in agreement. It was a beautiful moment. We didn’t spoil it by adding anything else.

After the guys left, I stood looking out the back door onto my garden. I traced the edges of the panels like I was in a prison cell, and gazed out at the green just beyond my window. I can’t remember how many times I had done this in earnest; maybe this was the first time. Maybe I had done this 3 times or 50 times before. Every time had been with a different person inside, feeling different moods and thinking different thoughts – thoughts I couldn’t even remember anymore. My mind was a blank to my past self. 

Today my ‘self’ was a young man in expectation of travelling to Ireland in search of a musician; today, my garden, with its different shades of green, became Ireland. I couldn’t remember who I had been at that moment, but I remembered Ireland, and I remembered the boys and myself, meeting fans there. Which year was it? It didn’t matter. When we weren’t recording music for the studio, we had been doing worldwide concert tours, almost constantly for 5 years. Each year was the same, the blur of faces the same blur. I couldn’t remember any faces. But I remembered a sea of faces. And I remembered the screams. Oh my god, the screams. I felt the screams inside of me, like all of those females were tearing out their collective esophagus, destroying voice boxes that would never be able to make a soft, melodious note after this big collective scream, trying to get the attention of their favorite boy band member. It was agonizing, because I could feel the pain of their screams in my own throat, and I couldn’t tell them to stop. My ears were clanging with the reverberations of collective adoration. I thought about The Beatles’ film, A Hard Day’s Night, and I remembered those scenes of screaming fans running after those boys, and they were running away from them… In horror? It didn’t seem so. The guys were laughing and smiling as they ran away. But that was a big production. Any news reel where they were shown smiling and laughing in the sea of screams – it had to be a production. But when I was hearing all those screams, I was cringing and miserable. Or was I? Or was I smiling and laughing, just the same?

I closed my eyes, and the garden was gone… but the screams remained.

 

Chapter 5: Searching the Wide World

Finally, the screams seemed to be dying away, to some distant corner of the earth. They were just a faraway siren call now.

“Gahlay, you can open your eyes,” said Lucas.

I opened my eyes, and the cool, green hills of Ireland stretched out before me. The wind wound around the grasses and brush, singing some high-pitched dirge. We were all “naked” so to speak – no sunglasses, hats, or overcoats that hid who we were – and I just stood there in the empty countryside soaking in the solitude, and the freedom of the air.

“Wow, do you not get out much, chap,” Tristan joked.

“Just enjoying the wind blowing through my hair,” I said.

“To great effect,” said Arthur.

“Ok, ok, we’re in Ireland now,” Tristan interjected. “Where are we going to look? Any thoughts, Lucas? This is your country.”

“I have a thought,” said Richard. “Let’s avoid Dublin, where we would have to be constantly incognito, and also avoid any far-off peninsula where they mainly speak Irish Gaelic.”

“Well, I made a great plan,” Lucas said excitedly. He pulled a map of Ireland out of his jacket, then stretched it out upon the ground. He found 4 rocks and placed them on the corners. Then he fished something out of his pocket. We all looked at him, wondering what was going to come next.

“Ok guys, I’m going to flip this coin blindly onto the paper, and wherever it lands, that is where we will look for our next band member.”

Tristan, Richard and Arthur stood there with their mouths agape, in disbelief or shock, it was hard to tell. When it came to Lucas, I was willing to go on a little faith.

“This is your plan?” blurted out Richard. He looked around. “Does anyone else have an actual plan, or are we stuck in the Irish countryside for the night?”

“No, come on. Hear me out. This is my great-grandmother’s lucky coin.”

We all laughed.

“I’m sure it is,” Richard said. “And she gave it to your parents, who in a blind flip had it land on the bed, and you came nine months later.”

“No, seriously. It’s a lucky coin. My great-grandma’s parents had wanted to emigrate to America, and she didn’t want to go. She cried and begged with them not to go. They told her that she was just a child, and they knew what was best. Well, young as she was, she went to the local church and talked to the priest. She told him of her heart’s desire to stay in Ireland and worship her Lord and Master, rather than going to that corrupt place called America. So, the Father took out a coin and blessed it with holy water. He told her to tell her parents what he did, and then to make their decision upon a flip of the coin, heads or tails.”

We were all listening now. Lucas really had the Irishman’s touch for tales.

“And then?” said Arthur.

“Of course, she ran back home and told her parents exactly what the priest had told her to say. She showed them the coin, and just at that moment the setting sun came through the window and caught the glint of the coin and shown a light on her mother’s cross. Well, my great-great-grandmother was a very religious woman, and she took that as a sign. So, she agreed to the toss of the coin.”

“Keep going,” said Tristan.

“Her father said, ‘Ok, if it turns up heads, we go to America. If it turns up tails, we stay in Ireland.’ And with that, he closed his eyes, made the sign of the cross, then flipped the coin. It landed on tails. So they stayed.”

“How was that lucky?” argued Richard.

“Well,” explained Lucas, “the ship they were planning to sail on was the Titanic.”

We all maintained an appreciative silence.

“Wait a second,” said Richard. “Is this story true?”

“Every word of it,” said Lucas, with his eyes now wide open, like a child’s. “When my great-great-grandparents heard about the fate of that ship, they knew the coin was blessed and told my great-grandmother to keep it near her always, since it obviously had a lucky charm inside it. After that, whenever important decisions were to be made that they felt were best made by God, they used the coin as a sign.”

“What’s going on, Gahlay? Why are you crying?” said Lucas, looking at me.

“Am I?” I said. I touched my hand to my cheeks. They were wet with tears. “Maybe it’s the cold wind on these hills. Let’s toss the coin and see where we’re going, Lucas.”

We watched as Lucas closed his eyes, made the sign of the cross, then, weighing the charm in his hand, flipped it with his fingers. We all watched it fall onto the map with the tiniest of thuds. We all huddled over the map.

Killarney.

“Killarney! My god, that’s ancient,” Lucas lamented.

“I think that sounds good. There’s a song written about it. It’s a good sign,” I said.

Some of the boys looked at me. “A song? What song?” said Tristan.

“You know, that one… Too-ra-loo…. Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral…” Still empty expressions. “It goes something like… Over in Killarney, many years ago… my mother sang a song to me…. You know, something like that.”

“Sorry, we don’t know,” stated Richard.

“Well, it’s been covered by singers in previous decades,” I explained.

“Like who?” said Richard.

I looked at him long and hard. He wasn’t really asking because he wanted to know. “You wouldn’t know them,” I told him.

“Well, Killarney it is, boys. That place has some nice scenery, so maybe we can make a nice trip of this. Besides, since we are coming from the Shannon airport, this is not too far away. Let’s get back in the car, find a hotel on our phones, then drive there as quickly as possible. We don’t want to waste any time. Ian expects us to get in touch with him within a few weeks.” And with that, Tristan turned and walked back toward the car.

I stood back for a few minutes as the rest of them made their way back to the car. I thought about that phrase, “a few weeks”. It felt so cold. But then again, it took studio executives only a few minutes to throw us together. I guess it didn’t matter. After that, we just performed like they knew we would.

By the time we got to Killarney, it was too late to go out to the local places, so we just checked in at our hotel. This was the first of a few times when Arthur would be the one to book the accommodations for us, since his name was not recognizable. The fans knew “Thuran” (goodness gracious), not the more academic name of Arthur. I reflected on that name as we waited in the car for him to finish the check-in (we would go in individually). I remembered some story about that name. I think his parents had given him that name in hopes he would be an academic, like a professor or something like that, making educated comments about obscure topics that only other academics cared about, but for which he would attain to some level of fame and respect. Maybe even publish a dusty old book, the kind that filled the shelves of pompous intellects and the gentry. I’m not trying to insult that profession, but I don’t really understand it. It’s so removed from real life. Well, I think that Arthur’s father had hoped the whole talent show gig was just a passing phase he needed to get out of his system as a teenager. When we started recording albums and the whole fanbase exploded around the world, I’m thinking he probably thought that this too would pass, and the money we made would pay for the expenses of his prestigious PhD studies; but when he started plastering tattoos on his body, I’m sure his father finally gave up on the dream that had been embodied in the name he had bequeathed upon his son as a babe in arms. And now here we were, receding into something beyond all that fame (at least I hoped). And I was wondering if Arthur could undergo a metamorphosis, some kind of rebirth. Those boyish good looks that had stood out on that first day of our being chosen and which I’m sure contributed to his being bequeathed with that new, pseudo name… well, they were fading away. If he wore long-sleeve shirts… and perhaps got back into reading books (which he ditched around the age of 14), he could become that academic after all. The world needed dusty old books. They actually stuck around longer than me and the boys would.

Arthur came to the car. “Here are our room keys and room numbers.”

I lay in my bed alone, listening to the laughter of Tristan and Lucas through the wall of the room. I guess I should have known I’d be the one with my own room, with Arthur making the arrangements. I wish I could say what had happened that put me here, but like all things related to the past six years, the details of the progression were subsumed in an abstract blur. One minute I was part of a hugging mass of bodies among young teenage boys being chosen for the opportunity of a lifetime, and the next I was 22 years old, and things had changed. You couldn’t have paid Arthur enough for us to hug each other. Maybe that was the problem. We had the fame and riches, so none of that performance was necessary anymore. Or there was something within myself that made those moments impossible. I remembered “moments” and “events” of our time together, and I could have participated in idle chatter with the guys that blended memories with daily practicalities. I’m sure I could have done that. But I didn’t. And I wondered if I was ever the kind of kid who did that. Maybe not. Or maybe I was, and I had changed. Why the hell could I not remember who I was?

I switched on my phone and searched on the name of our band. I scrolled through the list of videos, and chose an interview from 5 years earlier. It was about 10 minutes. I was quite funny. All of us were quite funny. Then I watched a few more, in progression. As the interviews became more recent, I became less funny; and it seemed like the guys and I said fewer things between us. How had that happened?

“Hey you,” I said, tapping on the phone screen, “Can you hear me? What in hell happened to you?” But I just kept talking about something, while Richard looked away distracted, Arthur tried to look interested, and Lucas was smiling. Tristan wasn’t even in the shot.

It was strange, but that night I dreamed of leprechauns. They were dancing all around a mid-summer bonfire, and Lucas was crossing himself in the light of the flames. He tossed his lucky coin, and it fell into the fire, then everything went dark, and only stars filled the midsummer night sky. Not a sound was heard.

 

Chapter 6: Stranger Tales to Be Told

“No, there are no leprechauns in Ireland, Gahlay. That’s a myth.” Lucas was laughing as he said this, and the other guys were looking at me as if I was daft. 

“That’s not true, sonny,” said the old man who was driving us slowly through the Killarney National Park. He had introduced himself as Mr. Gerald Tangney, of the ancient line of Tangney’s, descended from Teangana. The five us had settled in his open horse-drawn cart, ready for a few hours of slow-riding and story-weaving reverie. We had a lot of time to kill before we could hit the local pubs in the evening.

“Not true at all,” Tangney repeated, after an effective silence.

“Really? Why do you say that?” Richard always demanded some logical explanation.

“If he dreamed it, it certainly lives,” the old man sagely answered. Richard wasn’t buying it, but the rest of us nodded our heads, and I knew it was true. I had never dreamed about leprechauns before. They just weren’t something that entered my mind.

“Plus, I’ve seen a few around these parts,” Tangney added. Now we were all interested.

“You’ve seen them,” said Richard, with a hint of cynicism, but I could tell that he was curious. 

“Oh yes. When you’ve lived as long as I have and gone through these ancient parts as much as I have, you’re bound to see them. They love to hide among the trees. When the Brits – no offense to you guys personally – came and took most of our forests, they had to find sanctuary in the only parts of Ireland still left with trees – and one place is Killarney. They are taunting little creatures, but much of the time they will never show themselves – only to those they know are truly yearning for a pot of gold.” Tangney stopped his horses and turned around to look at me for a few seconds. “You be looking for a pot of gold, son?”

“Hardly,” said Lucas. “We’re already pretty rich.”

“Oh, ye would be would you? What do you do?”

“We are entertainers,” I answered truthfully. “Our band’s name is Different Waves.” There was no reaction from Mr. Tangney, so I continued. “We’re quite famous, actually. Known throughout the world.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said.

Lucas laughed nervously. “Well anyway,” he said again, “We are rich from being… entertainers.” He put kind of a funny emphasis on that word, as if it was occurring to him for the first time.

Tangney started the horses up again, but then threw over his shoulder, “Money is only one kind of riches. I think your friend there is searching for a different pot of gold.”

The guys all looked at me, and I just shrugged.

“The leprechauns… They can read the heart,” said the old man.

“So, why do they show themselves to you,” quizzed Richard, trying to trap the old man in his story.

“Oh, I’ve been jaunting through these parts so long, they see me as one of the trees.”

Lucas, I could tell, loved that answer, and silently laughed. It was impossible for a Brit to conquer the Irishman’s folksy wit.

“And besides, they know that I’ve long had something in my heart, as well.”

“Really,” I said. “What’s that?”

“The love of a woman named Ramona,” Tangney answered. His voice became slow and wistful. “It was one of those loves that young men never recover from. She had eyes that the moon danced in, and I could hear her voice when I woke in the morning, it was like part of the sunrise itself. I built up a little profession for myself, and we were to wed when she turned 17. I was already 20 years old, not very young for back in those times. How old would you guys be?”

“Most of us are 23, he’s 22,” Lucas said, pointing to me.

“Are any of ye married?”

We laughed.

Tangney continued. “Well, for back in those times, I was not a young groom. And we were to be wed on a weekend in May. I remember, the day before our marriage, we came here to the lakes, and we spoke our final words of singlehood, and then made our wishes for our marriage.”

He drove on in silence for a minute, until Richard couldn’t wait. “What happened?” he prompted.

“In due time, my son.” Tangney drove on for another minute, then pointed afar off. “You see that place over there? That was where we spent our last evening together as unmarried lovers.”

After a minute, he continued. “The next day, my Ramona was gone. She had simply disappeared. Her parents would say nothing to me. Some say that her father had secretly disapproved of the marriage, and had her led off during the night to some other family he had betrothed her to. Others said that wolves had come and torn her apart until nothing was left of her. Another story was that a lonely spirit that had been wandering the world in search of a bride, had chanced upon Ramona, bewitched her bridesmaids into a deep sleep, and took her away.”

We were all silent. I had a momentary recollection of a sea of screaming women, but I cleared my mind and watched the forest and lakes passing by my view.

“But I am a married man. Ramona is my wife. I know that I will see her again, whether in this life or in the spirit world. But this is where we were last together, and it is where we will be together at last. I guess the leprechauns know that I’m looking for something deep in my heart – my long lost love, my sweet Ramona.”

Mr. Tangney stopped again and turned around and looked at me. “So the question be, who or what is the long lost love you are seeking?”

I held my hand to my throat and looked at him, but couldn’t answer. The guys just looked at me and didn’t say a thing.

“So what kind of entertainers would you be?” asked Tangney, breaking the silence.

All of us kind of paused on our answer. It was hard to say anymore.

“We’re singers,” said Tristan.

“Singers! Would you mind singing me something? Maybe something Irish?”

“Something Irish?” said Arthur. “You mean a song by U2?”

Tangney stopped again and turned around on us. “Now what would you be doing that for? Do you know anything Irish?”

All of us were silent. With a barely audible tone, I started to sing “Danny Boy”. I gradually sang it a bit stronger, but with the lament due to a parent who had lost his beloved son. I only sang one part of it; being in a band, nothing was more traitorous than showing up a solo effort.

“Now that be an Irish song. And a beautiful one at that. What about the rest of ye? Sing something together and charm the fairies out of their hiding places.”

The five of us smiled at each other; it was a luxurious, peaceful smile. I think Mr. Tangney was one of the best audiences we had ever had – maybe because he was a bit of a natural entertainer. There were no production cues, just the five of us out in the wilderness, singing for a lonely old man who didn’t want anything more from us than a gentle melody.

So we sang. It was the first time in a great while that our singing felt natural.

That night, our first choice of pub ended in disaster. I blame myself. It had been quite raucous by the time we got there, and there were various impromptu performances going on. We could tell pretty quickly from the drunk crowd that we were not going to find any genuine talent there. Still, we stayed and drank our Guinness to wet our tongues. I’m not a fan of Guinness, but it felt wrong to drink anything else with Lucas. We were just going to finish our beer then find another pub somewhere else.

We had put on our costumes as usual, to hide our identities, and everything was going okay, until I got a little tipsy and accidently took off my dark glasses. I got recognized right away by a very abrasive fellow who somehow blamed me for a former relationship gone bad. He really ripped into us, saying how “pansy boy bands” like us build up false dreams in girls’ heads, and he had a mind to have him and his boys give us a proper stomping. Arthur had gotten just drunk enough to start returning his challenge; Lucas stepped in and was able to use his cultural understanding of the communication to dispel their anger, and of course implemented the ultimate graciousness – he paid the bar for the next few rounds for everyone in the pub. As we made our stealthy exit, we could hear everyone cheering him.

Unfortunately, Arthur’s anger had not gone away.

“What did you have to do that for?” he yelled at me when we were outside.

“What’s wrong with you? We got out,” I replied, trying to be controlled.

“What’s wrong with me? Nothing. It’s you. You had to take off your dark glasses, eh? What did you do that for? Had to show off your pretty face? Thanks to that pretty face, you almost got your bandmates beaten in, you a**hole!”

That was it. “MY pretty face! Get you beaten up? It’s my pretty face that helped make us rich, you ungrateful jerk!”

“Well, we can cure you of that right now!”

Arthur came after me, and no doubt would have done damage to my face, but Richard stepped in with all his energy to stop him; it was difficult, though, because Arthur was much more muscular. Tristan stepped in front of me, then turned around and looked at me.

“Why don’t you just shut up, will you?”

Lucas came out and looked shocked at what he saw, and instinctively went up to hold Arthur back, as he saw Richard struggling against him. He had no idea what had happened.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

Tristan turned from me and said, “Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s just the Guinness. It’s hard for Brits to handle Irish ale. It doesn’t sit well in our blood.”

“Ha ha, that’s true,” laughed Lucas.

We let it drop. We had to. We couldn’t stay angry at each other and still function as a band.

We decided to move to another part of the area, preferably on the outskirts, where there weren’t tourists or such a raucous crowd. We ended up on a lonely road, and heard interesting music drifting from a colorful pub at the end of the path before it turned into even more lonely parts. We peeked into the windows.

“Oh goodness, there are just a lot of older men in there,” said Lucas. “Maybe we should turn back.”

“No,” said Tristan. “This place is more peaceful. And we heard something coming from inside here.”

The five of us walked in, and several of the older men turned and looked at us. Lucas said he heard one of them under his breath use a slang term for homosexuals. Overall, we felt more comfortable here, because none of these guys knew us.

“What’ll you be having,” said the barkeep.

This time, we ordered what we wanted. 

The man brought our drinks to us some minutes later. He was looking carefully at our faces, then he straightened up.

“If you don’t mind me asking, but you look a lot like that young band that I’ve seen on the telly. Are you those guys?”

Lucas said, “Yes, we are.”

“Ah. My granddaughter really likes you guys.” And he walked away without saying another word. The other four guys smiled like they were about to burst out laughing, then finally they laughed. I pretended to laugh. But inside I was sad. For some reason, I would have felt better if that man had said he liked our music. Who was his granddaughter anyway? Some young girl just coming into puberty, not knowing anything of life?

After about 15 minutes, the voice we had heard on the road came back. A young man (almost a boy) took the stage with a fiddle. He was quite good looking, and had interesting expressions, full of life and happiness. Whatever Lucas had, this guy had in extraordinary measure. 

“Hi, for those of you who are just coming here, which is almost none of you,” he said, to laughter from the customers, “my name is Colin, and I have a little story from a few years back, which of course in Irish years is about a century.” More laughter. We loved him instantly.

He intertwined his story with playful use of his violin that complemented the emotions in his words, and interspersed both of these with singing – sometimes soulful, sometimes playful, but always entertaining. I had only been living as a normal person in Ireland for a few days, but I could already see what had made Lucas the kind-hearted guy he was. I started to envy the charm of this Colin, for whom words and music so easily wound through the minutes he spent on stage. Just like with Ian, I found myself wanting to just continue listening.

The bandmates and I looked at each other. We all felt the same. We had hit on another talent.

Richard turned toward Lucas. “Can I see that lucky coin?”

“Of course,” Lucas said, pulling it out.

Richard took it out, held it up, and kissed it. “I don’t believe in magic, but bless your little coin toss.” And in another moment of magic (which I did believe in), we all found ourselves laughing together.

We didn’t need to go and find Colin; after his final performance, he came and sat with us.

“What are you guys here for? Tourists? I can spot out-of-towners right away. You guys dress a bit too cosmopolitan for these parts.”

Lucas laughed. “No, not tourists, more like talent scouts.”

“Talent scouts? In these parts? Did you take a wrong turn on the road to Dublin, mate?”

“No, we ended up here through MAGIC,” blurted out Arthur. We all laughed. He was definitely drunk.

We took off our dark glasses and put our hoods down. Every time I did that, I felt like I was shedding a prison cell.

“Oh, sh**, you’re that boy band.” We all looked down in embarrassment.

“Ha ha, yeah, we get that reaction a lot it seems,” said Lucas. “But we would like to talk to you. Have you ever been interested in doing anything with your musical talent? By the way, how old are you?”

“I’m 17.”

“What are you doing playing this pub?”

“Earning money to support myself through college. I finished secondary school, and this is just a temporary gig for a year to save up money.”

“Where did you learn how to play the violin?” I asked.

“Oh, that. I just learned to play on my own, with some mentoring from my grandfather, who could also play the fiddle – and tell great stories.”

Tristan spoke up. “We actually wanted to put a suggestion before you. As Lucas mentioned, we were wondering if you would be interested in doing something with music. If your main goal is university, that’s fine, but this would be a good way to earn money toward that, while doing something for which you obviously have talent.”

“What’s the question?” Colin asked.

“Well, since you know our position in the music world, you know that we have connections. We were actually trying to put together a music group.”

“Put together?” Colin said merrily, looking at all of us. “Like assembling a child’s toy?”

I laughed at this.

“Shouldn’t the formation of a band be more of a natural process?”

Richard came in with his business acumen. “Colin, the world has changed a lot. These things don’t just happen to musicians with a dream and a several years of practicing together. Look at…” and he fished through his head for something good to sell. “Look at Led Zeppelin. Those four guys had not really been playing together for a long time. Jimmy Page wanted to form a new band, and he met the other three through knowledge and introductions. That they came together so well was serendipitous.”

Colin looked at Lucas and smiled, as if there was some secret joke between them. “You’re comparing what you’re doing now with me and a couple of strangers to the history of Led Zeppelin?”

“The truth is,” added Tristan, “The world is a bit more corporate. It’s hard to let nature take its course with musical careers, as it might have been in the past. We don’t want to just grab 4 handsome performers from some reality TV show—”

“Like you guys, huh?”

“To be honest, no. We are seeking some deeper talent. And just giving the individuals a nudge together.”

In that moment, I loved Tristan for saying that. And I could tell Colin was also convinced.

“So, what else do you play?” I asked. 

Colin looked around, then made a gesture with his head. “Come with me.”

We found ourselves sitting outside in the quiet darkness of post-midnight Killarney, listening to a teenage boy play the violin with his whole soul.

“Can you play anything by Simon and Garfunkel?” I asked. The other guys looked at me.

“Simon and Garfunkel? Well, let me see, what do I know by them? Their name is familiar, but I don’t really collect their music… Wait a second. I do know one. It’s called “Kathy’s Song.” I remember it was the favorite of this English girl I dated for a while. I lost the girl, but I kept the song. Come to think of it, the girl’s name was also Kathy, so I think there was a little self-love going on with her choice of songs.”

We all laughed at his anecdote. He was so good at telling a story. He then proceeded to play a beautiful rendition of that song, which expressed something of his love for that song, and probably a little of his love for that girl, as well.

“That’s lovely,” I said. “Can you sing it?”

“Ok, enough with that song,” said Arthur.

“I’m just trying to use it as kind of a basis. It’s a simple song, but with a beautiful melody. You can judge a lot about someone’s talent from more simple songs like that.”

“Can I sing it? I can try,” said Colin. “You want to sing it with me? It feels strange to sing a soft tune without some kind of solace.”

So the two of us sang it together. I don’t know if it was the emotion of the song, or the weariness of the night, but I felt like crying at the end. But I didn’t.

Colin stared at me for a moment. “You know, you’ve got a voice that sings like an angel… But an angel that’s thinking thoughts it shouldn’t be thinking.”

Then he got a confused look on his face. “That’s not the voice I’ve heard in your band’s songs on the radio. Why don’t they let you sing like that?”

“Yes, it was beautiful,” commented Richard, in a rare moment of kindness. “But I just wanted to mention that this is not the kind of song you’ll be recording.”

“Why not?” I shot back.

“Why not? Because this is going to be a modern album for a modern audience,” said Richard, exasperated.

“There’s no reason why you can’t bring classic sounds into the modern playlist. I think these musicians have the talent to do that.”

The other guys watched me and Richard stare each other down.

“Well, regardless,” interjected Colin good humoredly, what are the requirements for this position?”

Tristan responded: “We would like you to have a good singing voice, some instrumental ability if possible but not necessary, a healthy physique, and….”

“And a handsome face?”

All of us laughed nervously, and didn’t want to respond. Arthur looked hard at me, while saying to Colin, “That goes without saying.”

We had found our second musician. Tristan and Richard made all the arrangements for when they would probably have him come to London, and they exchanged all the necessary contact info. I couldn’t touch that part of what we were doing. It made me feel so cheap. I couldn’t explain why, but it did. I knew it was necessary, but that didn’t make it any less revolting. I wondered how musicians found their way in centuries past.

The guys and I stood on the road for a bit, and I watched Colin walking away, down the dark road, his violin case tucked securely between his arm and his body. It felt like I would never see him again, although I knew in the harsh light of day, under artificial lights and professional contract terms, I would see him again soon. But under this moonlit sky, the silent darkness enveloping his young 17-year-old self clinging to his fiddle and walking home to his mother after an intimate evening in a cozy little pub – this person I would never see again.

After he had disappeared, I thought I saw the ghost of Ramona. The old man had been right – she was beautiful, inside and out. Her eyes reflected the moon, and her smile absorbed the love of the man who looked upon her with a love that was made for someone like her.

 

Chapter 7: The Harsh Light of Day

The woman was walking toward us, and was carrying a few shopping parcels, and over her shoulder swung a Gucci purse. The woman next to her was also carrying parcels full of purchased goods. They walked in tandem, with swift, practical steps. Their mouths and eyes were strained and intent, engaged in some kind of conversation.

“Gahlay, hello, are you with us?” It was Tristan.

“I’m sorry, I was daydreaming,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I said we’ve arrived. We’re just minutes away from our hotel. What do you think?”

Michigan Avenue, Chicago. I looked out of the tinted car windows at the streets and buildings.

“It’s quite angular,” I said. “But lively.”

“Angular,” Lucas repeated, laughing. He started making geometrical shapes with his hands, making the other boys laugh. “Here’s the Sears Tower. Here’s that pencil-shaped building, here’s the weird black apartment buildings out on the pier. Here’s Trump Tower.” And so on. He made goofy characterizations of each building, and all of us laughed.

When we got to the hotel, we parked in the garage underneath, and made sure all of our costume gear was on. We knew how Americans tended to react to celebrities, and we were too tired to deal with it.

“I hope you guys are going to compensate me for this hotel that I booked. These hotels in downtown Chicago are too d**n expensive,” complained Arthur.

“Sorry, man,” said Tristan. “Richard and I have a great spot for you on the sidewalk where you can beg all your losses back.” That got the four of them laughing. I knew better than to laugh at a joke at Arthur’s expense.

As before, I had my own hotel room, but I didn’t mind. My room had an amazing view, and I stood there, looking down at the movement on the streets, thinking about how we had gotten to this place in the wide world of America. It had all transpired in a single conversation back in London, after we had left Ireland.

“So now we have to look for someone in America,” Tristan had said.

“Where are we going to even start?” said Lucas.

“Maybe you should use that lucky coin,” joked Richard.

“Sorry, but a coin blessed by the Lord doesn’t work in a godless country,” said Lucas.

“Why don’t we just take it by geographical location?” suggested Tristan.

“Or perhaps eliminate it by geographical location,” added Richard. We all agreed this was the best method. America was just too big. We would be looking for weeks.

Lucas retrieved a map online and then said, “Ok, well Hollywood is famous. What about California?”

“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “All those superficial California snobs just looking for fame? We want a musician, not another entertainer… like us.”

“Ok, California is out,” said Tristan, looking at me with a serious expression.

“What about the Northwest? Washington State? Seattle?” suggested Lucas.

“The birthplace of grunge music? You think the musicians there are thinking “boy band”?” I said.

“He’s right,” said Tristan. “Forget the whole West Coast.”

“What all about the East coast?” said Lucas. “You have New York, Boston, New Jersey, Philadelphia, and all these other places.”

“A bunch of art snobs,” said Arthur. “They think too much of their own culture. We’re not going to get a moldable product from them.”

“Ok, so upper East Coast is out,” said Richard.

“How about Texas? That’s a fun place, right?”

“Isn’t that where George Bush is from?” said Tristan.

“Texas is out,” we all said together, and started laughing.

“How about the Southern States?”

“Absolutely not,” said Richard. “We need someone who can sing with a near proper English accent.

“Ok, what about all these places between Pennsylvania and the Rocky Mountains?”

Arthur laughed. “Remember that guy who wanted to slaughter us in the pub? That’s pretty much all the guys in that part of the U.S.”

“Ok, ok, we need to rethink this,” said Tristan. “We don’t want people who are snobs, or just flaky entertainers, or opposed to our type of music. We want people with some sense of culture, who are a bit cosmopolitan enough to appreciate the entertainment industry, relaxed enough to have an open mind about others, but still with their own musical identity.”

“How about Chicago,” I said.

“Chicago,” said Lucas. “A big city, with a lot of art, but no elitism or Hollywood style ego.”

Richard and Tristan looked at each other and silently nodded.

And here I was, looking down upon Chicago. I felt much more powerful as an anonymous entity than when we came here as superstars. Back then, the entire experience was landing at the airport, being taken to the hotel, taken to the stadium to perform, performing on cue, smiling for the audience, saying just the right words, being taken back to the hotel, not having a moment’s privacy, being taken to the airport, then having the whole routine happen again. It seemed like we were “on top of the world”, but I felt like a passive vessel, being thrown around. I started reflecting on every single aspect of my life with this band, and I could hardly remember a moment that wasn’t scripted. Those songs we sang, those music videos we made, and then those awful interviews we had to go through, where they asked us to expose private things about our lives – as if we had not already been jostled around and dissected enough…. And through it all, we had to be pleasant, and try to smile. But we smiled less and less as we tired of the game.

Now this big city was far beneath me, and I just stood there, watching the wheels of life turning around.

When we split up to go to different places of the city, everyone split up by their hotel room partners, which again meant I was alone. I was ok with that. I somehow suspected that, since I was the one who had suggested an American to be part of the group, I was the only one who was going to actually look for someone.

So I found myself in my usual disguise, in the South part of the downtown. I was surprised at how unprepared I was. I had thought it would be easy to just go around the city and find some kind of musician, but it seemed most people were just maintaining a constant movement of life and business. I thought people might have acted a bit more relaxed and chill, but everyone moved forward with intent, only stopping with the traffic lights. Even the beggars were intense.

I knew I would have to seek out some kind of art center. I entered some kind of student hangout at DePaul University. I really had no idea what I was doing, but I got a coffee at Starbucks and sat down at one of the tables. I looked around, just to take in this peculiar mode of life of the American Midwest, and I started to feel weird, like some outsider watching people going around in some type of human fishbowl. I was just about to say “screw it” and go back to the hotel, when I noticed a very beautiful girl with a handsome guy sitting down at a table several meters away. I could tell from how they talked to each other and she touched his hand, that they were intimate. I wanted to go over to talk to the girl, but the guy was obviously her boyfriend. 

After the boyfriend left, the girl actually gathered her things and came over to me.

She put her stuff down, then sat down opposite me, and looked straight at my face.

“You’re Gahlay from Different Waves, aren’t you.”

I wanted to run out of there. “Yeah, I am. What gave it away.”

“Your hair sticking out of your hat, and the shape of your face. I draw faces, so I notice details like that. But don’t worry. I can tell with the lengths you went through to disguise yourself, you don’t want people to know who you are. I won’t say anything.”

“I appreciate that.” I looked at her for a few seconds. “You know, I noticed you over there. You’re quite beautiful.”

She gasped a bit, then looked away like I had embarrassed her. “Well… Thank you for the compliment…. Actually, I’m interested in why you’re here. You’re so famous – why hang out at a student union in downtown Chicago?”

“I’m actually on a bit of a mission.”

“What kind of mission?”

I breathed deeply. Should I tell this girl? How could I know who to trust with my secrets anymore?

“I’m looking for someone with musical ability,” I said, in a hesitant voice.

“What? You mean singing and entertaining like you and your band?”

“Well… Yes. But also a little more than that.”

“Hmm.” She seemed to be thinking.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh! Sorry. I’m Treena. And of course, I know you.”

“Treena, I’m alone in this city. I wondered if you would like to go somewhere nicer and have something better to drink.”

She looked away again. “Wow. You’re a straight shooter. Thank you. But…” She looked straight at me. “Well, I kind of have a boyfriend. You saw him over there with me, right?”

“That was your boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” And she smiled.

“So you won’t even go for a walk with me?”

“You know… You’re really cute, and I like your songs. I know you’re famous and everything. And to be honest, I know a lot of teenage girls younger than me who would go with you in a heartbeat… You are the object of a lot of girls’ fantasies, I’m sure…. But I have a great boyfriend. And why should I bother with the fantasy when I can have the reality?”

I thought about my life, and quietly reacted inside myself at the irony of her words.

“Anyway, my mom would go out with you, too.”

“Your mom? Why is that?”

“I think it’s because, at a certain age, women lose the reality of love, so they go for the fantasy again.”

I thought about this. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. So I have a lot of underage girls and aging women to choose from.”

She laughed freely and nodded her head. “There are probably a lot of single women around my age who would also go out with you,” she added, with a reassuring voice. I stared at her gentle amusement. She really was beautiful.

“I know that’s why you have to cover yourself up so much. A lot of women who are eager to talk to you or grab at you, it’s probably uncomfortable. Your problem is you’re too good looking.” In my lack of response that ensued, she stared at me, like she was examining me. “Well, you’re under there somewhere,” and she laughed again.

You have no idea, I thought to myself. I smiled at her words.

“By the way, I was thinking about what you said, you know, looking for a musician. I actually have a friend who is getting a degree at Columbia College just nearby who would be great. Just a sec, let me see if she’s there.”

It was evening in Chicago, and the skyline was lit up like thousands of electric candles on an urban birthday cake. I remembered just some days earlier, seeing the stars in the sky over Killarney, Ireland; but I would see no such sight above me tonight. All the lights were below. It had its own beauty and peace.

The guys had not returned yet (they were probably eating out or drinking somewhere), so I took some time to think about the girl I had met and how she would be for the band.

Treena had taken me to a girl named Lori. She was not as physically beautiful, but she was pretty; and after my conversation with her, I thought… Actually, she’s beautiful, too. But I had to be realistic. This band stuff and this fame – no one sees who you are on the inside; if you’re lucky, your bandmates get a glimpse of that, but otherwise… worldwide fame comes with a lot of non-transparency and loneliness. 

Lori recognized me as soon as I took off my disguise, but she didn’t act too excited, although I could see that she was excited to see someone famous from the music world. She was 18 years old and came from the Chicago area. I had briefly mentioned what the bandmates and I were looking for, and asked her to play something. She had a keyboard and a regular piano in the room, and I loved that she went to the piano first.

“What should I play?” she had asked.

“Something old,” I said.

Right away, she started to play Beethoven. She was really good. I felt a bit weird, because I was the rich and famous musician – entertainer – in the room, but she seemed to have the talent. When she finished, she looked at me. I laughed.

“Ok… Well… Play something a bit newer.”

She then played some jazz piece by someone she introduced as Thelonious Monk. I had never listened to this type of music before, and it blew me away. I wanted to spend hours in this room with her. When she finished, she looked at me again. I laughed nervously.

“Ok… Well… Play something a bit less descriptive.”

She looked at me with a curious face, then smiled. Her hands touched the keys, trying to search out some melody, then she played one of the Different Waves’ tunes. It was a simplistic melody, but she gave it something more than it had when we had recorded and released it.

“Yeah, that’s us,” I said.

She talked for a while about her background in music and then music in general, and I felt like I was a child in some ways. She knew so much.

“So, can you sing, Lori.”

She sat at the keyboard. “I’m not as much of a virtuoso at singing as I am at playing piano, but I’m ok.” She thought for a moment. “So, are there any requests?”

“I’m a Beatles fan, and they’re pretty universal, so can you sing something by them?”

“Ok, I’ll do something that has a range for the keyboard as well as the voice.”

Then she started into this slow, kind of smooth version of “Across the Universe.” Her voice was not stand out, but it was haunting and smooth, like silk sheets on a bed at night. I thought about the three different singers we had hit on so far, how each of them had unique traits. Would they blend? I’m sure they could. Colin had the most powerful voice of the three, but they all had amazing musical talent for instruments and improvisation.

“That was just lovely,” I told her. Then I explained in more detail what I had come to meet her for. When I finished, there was a longer pause than I had hoped for.

“To be honest, I wanted to meet you, and wanted to share some time talking about music. Most guys are not really into that; I mean, they have egos, and it’s hard to get past that. I just wanted to spend time sharing music, sharing my thoughts about music – it’s really nice to have a sounding board for that, especially from someone like you.

“But?”

“But… My goal is not being famous or starting a recording band. I mean, perhaps someday I will write some of my own instrumental music and record it, but right now my goal is to be a music teacher and a community mentor.”

I looked at her. I must have looked confused, but not for the reason she thought. I couldn’t believe anyone with so much talent just wanted to be a “teacher”.

“I want to teach young kids music in the schools, and also be part of a community organization that assists kids in their dreams of the arts and fostering creativity. You know, so many kids get caught up in gangs, or drop out of school, or in the case of the middle class, they get caught up in the race for entering university and just focus on the academic requirements measured by the schools of their choice, and creativity tends to be the main casualty in all this. It sometimes takes years to build up a kid’s self-esteem and talent for artistic endeavors… but you know that.”

“Actually, I don’t,” I admitted honestly. “My road was fairly simple and instantaneous. It’s kind of a shame, in retrospect. But couldn’t you do work as a community mentor if you were famous? Think of it that way. And your music could inspire kids.”

“I mean you or your profession no disrespect, but most of the pop music being pumped into the airwaves nowadays is rather meaningless, monotonous, and tends to suppress the artistic side of the brain. How can I be a part of that? I need to pursue something I really believe in.”

This girl seemed wise beyond her years. She had really immersed herself in music. 

The Chicago night was so beautiful and peaceful from this hotel room window. But in the end, all windows were the same; they felt like prisons. I must have looked out of at least ten thousand windows, and always beyond was something I could see and feel inside my heart, but could never touch.

Somehow, through my own power of persuasion, I had convinced Lori to come and meet the guys the next day at our hotel.

The guys came home quite late, and I could hear them in the hallway, definitely drunk. I went outside my door and stared at them just as they were getting to their doors. They were leaning on each other, swaying and laughing at their own jokes. Then Tristan saw me, and, leaning on Lucas’ shoulder still, he came up to me and jabbed me in the chest several times so hard that it hurt.

“It’s been nice knowing ya,” he said, and he and the other guys all laughed.

“It’s been nice knowing ya, Gahlay,” Richard and Arthur chimed in together, in kind of a mock niceness, then laughed at me.

Only Lucas seemed somewhat sober. “They’ve been learning some American sayings,” he said to me. “We have got to get ourselves into our rooms. We’re completely pissing drunk.”

The next day, I heard about what the guys had done – in fact, the 4 of them together, and it was just as I had suspected. They had no interest in looking for a musician in America. Maybe they were hoping I had not found any, either, so they could just put some more Brits in the group and be done with it. That was what had been done to us, so I understand – they were just going on what they knew. It came as quite a surprise, then, when I announced I had found someone. Their jaws slightly dropped, and there was silence, but then they recovered.

“Have you been using my lucky coin, Gahlay,” joked Lucas.

“No, I think it was fate. I just happened to meet the right person.”

“Well then, tell us what happened,” said Tristan.

“I was in kind of a public, student union place at a local university, and I happened to meet this beautiful girl—”

The guys all made a sound together. “Ah haaahhh.”

“Happened to meet a beautiful girl… or did she happen to meet you?” taunted Arthur.

Lucas laughed, and they were all looking at me.

“Well, I guess it kind of happened both ways,” I said, smiling. Lucas laughed again.

“So through this girl, I’m assuming you were introduced to the next band member,” said Richard.

“Well, yes. That is how it happened.”

“So what’s his name?” said Richard. “Are we going to meet him today?”

I paused. “Well…. It’s not really a him. It’s more of a her.”

I’m going to skip the slur of epithets and annoyance that transpired for the next few minutes.

“...Gahlay, what part of “boy” in “boy band” do you not understand?” said Richard, after they had all had their turns reacting to my announcement.

“Excuse me, but when we first discussed the idea of putting a band together, we did not specifically say “BOY”, we just said band.”

“Seriously man. We talked about a boy band,” said Tristan.

“No…. We talked about a band,” I argued, raising my voice.

“We talked about a band like us,” said Richard. “I think it was implicit that we meant a boy band.”

I couldn’t argue against Richard’s logic. “Come on, guys. Just give her a chance. She’s going to be here at 1pm.”

“Absolutely not. We can’t consider having a mixed band. That will never work,” said Richard.

“Why not?”

“How many mixed-gender bands do you know?”

I thought for a second. “There’s Jefferson Airplane… Fleetwood Mac… ABBA… the B-52’s.”

I paused, because I knew what reaction was coming. Then I added, “And The Carpenters.”

“God man, do you hear yourself? Those bands you mentioned took at least a few years to build up a following and become famous.” Richard gathered his argument. “What do you think we’re doing? This is not a multi-year project. Also, we’re focusing on a specific demographic of fans. We’re putting together a band, we’re giving them songs, they’ll record those songs, they’ll make some attractive videos, and wham, they’ll be rich and famous. I don’t know what time period you’re living in sometimes, Gahlay.”

The guys looked on in silence.

“She’s coming at 1pm,” I repeated. “I think you owe her a few minutes of your time. She’s really good.”

“Let’s meet her anyway,” said Lucas. “Maybe she knows a male musician, and we’ll have our band member after all.”

I didn’t know how many times Lucas’ kindness was going to come to my rescue, but the other guys agreed to meet her after all.

I could tell, when she walked into the room, the guys were impressed.

“You always know how to pick them, don’t you,” said Arthur, veiling an insult under a compliment.

“Wonderful, they have a semi-decent piano here,” she said. “By the way, I’m Lori.” She shook hands with all of us in true American style, and knew our names.

“So why don’t you play something for us, to show what you can do,” said Tristan.

Before I could say something, she started into an elaborate classical piece. The guys’ mouths were agape. At the end of the piece, Arthur looked at me.

“What is this you brought us, f**king Yo Yo Ma,” he said.

Before I could say a word, Lori banged a loud note on the piano. “Yo Yo Ma is a cellist. This is a piano. We’re not the same,” she said loudly, glaring at Arthur, who backed away.

“Besides,” she continued, “I really want to apologize to YOU,” looking at me, “because I came here to tell you that I can’t do this. I need to follow my dream, I need to go with what I love doing. I can’t compromise that.”

“So, this has been a waste of time,” said Richard.

“I didn’t come here to waste your time,” she said, with full dominance in her voice. She obviously was not a fan of our group. “In fact, I brought someone else who is completely interested in your plan. I have a brother who is a year older than me. He’s also into music and really talented – he just doesn’t have the same goals as I do. He wants to make money.”

“Well, where is he,” said Lucas.

“Just a sec.”

She went to the door and gestured him in. As soon as he got close enough, we all looked at each other. This guy was really good looking. And I don’t mean that in an “I’m attracted to him” sort of way, but as someone who has been in an industry that concentrates on appearance. 

“I think you’ve got the job,” joked Lucas.

“Don’t you want to hear me play and sing?” He sat down at the piano. His speaking voice was really good to listen to.

“No, I think we’ll take it on good faith,” said Richard. “Gahlay said your sister is really talented, and if you have the same talent, then it’s fine. Besides, you have the bare essentials; everything else we can work with.”

“The bare essentials?” he asked.

“He means a willingness to collaborate with strangers and a desire to make money,” I said, trying to cover over Richard’s embarrassing statement. I knew that he was really trying to insult and embarrass me, but I didn’t want to start a fight here. We had to keep it together in front of these people.

“By the way, my name is Kevin.”

“That’s a good name,” said Arthur.

“Ok, ok,” Tristan said, “Let’s make a plan for you to come to London. We’ll pay for the flight and everything, you just need to free your schedule.”

“It’s already free,” Kevin said.

“He took a year off of college,” explained his sister.

“Perfect, then he can focus on becoming a superstar musician,” joked Richard.

There was a quiet pause between us, and Kevin played a nice, simple tune on the piano with a natural ease. Then he stopped and looked up at us.

“I know my sister is not a big fan of your band, but I just wanted to say… I love your music.”

Then Kevin smiled, and his whole face was warm and charming. At that moment, I knew he was perfect for the new band.

 

Chapter 8: Back Home Again

As we sat in the airport, inconspicuously attired, I felt a sense of weariness growing upon me. It seemed like there was some kind of emotional tug of war going on over this new band we were trying to create. I didn’t like the direction that the other guys were taking it in, but I had no one to defend my vision. I was angry, frustrated, tired, but I had to act like I was okay with everything…everything…everything…I wasn’t an emotional type, letting loose all over the place, but there was something going on inside of me that was getting hard to ignore. It was making it hard for me to mentally breathe sometimes. I questioned what we were doing, and I began to detest my role in it. What was happening here… We were finding excellent musicians and artists, promising them a chance to express themselves, but ultimately something else was going to come to pass… I felt like we should have just gone out on the streets of London and stopped the first 4 really good-looking men who had a certain charm in their personality. This is what Richard meant by “bare essentials”. Everything else about recording music was adaptable. I looked down at my cellphone, full of its websites and images, and looked at the people around me, focused on their electronic gadgets. All that mattered were the images. Sound, emotion, impact… It could all be manipulated to fit the image. I clicked on a video of a cat, jumping up on a counter then slipping and falling off – entertaining and disastrous results at the same time. The poster had manipulated the video image so that you could see the same thing happen 3 times in row. I clicked on it again. And again. And again. And again. After a while, it became ridiculous.

“You did this,” I thought to myself.

There was part of me, at that moment, that just wanted to sing something. I wanted to sing something, anything. I didn’t want to care that I was in public, that I was in the middle of a busy airport, that people would hear me, that people would notice me and react. I just wanted to sing a song, and the desire became so strong, I felt my very ability to keep it together depended upon just singing what was inside of me at that moment.

But I remained silent.

I sent an email to my mom, telling her where I was and what the guys and I were doing. When all else failed, I took solace in my mom.

“Hey man,” Lucas said, coming over to sit beside me and pat my knee, “Everything worked out okay then, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling at him (genuinely). “Looks like you were right about the girl introducing us to a guy. Hey, next time I go to a fashion show with beautiful models, I’d like to borrow that lucky coin, ok?”

“Ha ha, the coin is only half of the luck,” Lucas joked with laughter in his eyes. “You also have to be Irish.”

I laughed out loud at this one. Then there was a silent pause where I looked at Lucas a little too long.

“What is it?” he asked, breaking my stare.

“Oh, well,” I started, then sighed. “I was just thinking. Do you love what we’ve done?”

“You mean with this new band so far? Why not? I think it’s an interesting experiment with what we can do for their music.”

I chuckled a little bit. “Do for their music,” I mused. “No, I didn’t mean them. I meant us. Do you love what we have done….with our music?”

“Oh, Gahlay, saying ‘our’ music is giving the music we perform a very broad definition. I know you have been frustrated, but you know, all of us have had our own dreams when it comes to music.” 

Lucas seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say next. I knew he was thinking about the types of genuine, non-Different Waves love songs he loved to sing, and yearned to write. Then out came the standard line. 

“Let’s not worry about that right now.”

The meaningful conversation was promptly dropped, and Lucas watched me typing into my cellphone. “So, who are you texting?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m writing to my mom.”

“She won’t be getting that right now. I’m sure she’s asleep.”

“Nah, she keeps a special alarm for when she receives my texts. Wakes her up right away.”

“Ha ha, really now. Is it a tune of doom, or something light?”

“It’s…” I looked at him, and smiled. “Actually, it’s one of our songs.”

“Oh, then it’s as light as a feather.”

I laughed again. Lucas was so great. I knew, at some point in our future, I was going to miss having him around.

I had sent the text and there were a few minutes of silence, then the text signal on my phone sounded.

“Ha! That would be my mom.”

“Now I’m jealous, Gahlay,” Lucas joked. “What did she say? Don’t wake me up?”

“No, she said she has an idea and will take care of it.”

Several hours later, we had gotten back to London and were all ready to go home.

“Man, I have to wash all this travelling off of my body,” said Tristan. “I just need a rest before we look for #4 in this band.”

“Guys,” I said. “Wait.”

They all paused, waiting for me.

“Actually, I may have a lead into our final band member. My mom said that she knows someone in the village back home whose son is looking for an opportunity to sing and perform.”

“How old is he?” asked Tristan.

“17 years old. Finished with high school. She said he’s good looking and very energetic, a lot of charm…. Just what you’re looking for,” I added.

“How sweet,” said Arthur. “Leave it up to your mom to introduce another Gahlay into the world.”

The other guys went really quiet and looked at the both of us.

“You know, Arthur,” I said, very low and slowly, “I’m not a violent man. But you are pushing me toward it.”

Arthur laughed. “I’d like to see that.”

Lucas laughed nervously. “Gahlay, he’s just talking from a really tired place. We all need to rest. Why don’t you tell your mom we’ll meet up with her and this kid in your village in 3 days.”

Three days later, the 5 of us were walking around the small town that I had called home for the first 16 years of my life. I wondered, if all this had never happened, if I still would have been here. This world seemed so small, but in some ways, it also seemed free. I wondered if it was ever possible to come home in the true sense; not just travel to a geographical location, but to return to the innocence and sense of home that a place fostered within the soul. We finally approached my mom’s house.

“Galahad, I’m so glad you’re here!” she called, waving to us.

I ran up to her. “Mom!” I said, in a low voice, “I told you to stop calling me that name!”

“It’s your given name, be proud of it,” she said, softly ruffling my hair.

“Not right now, mom,” I begged.

“Hey, it’s Gahlay’s mom,” Lucas announced, walking up to the house. “Come on, guys. Get your move on.” Then he looked back at us. “So, where’s the little Puck that’s going to cause all the new mischief with the girls?”

That threw all of us into a fit of laughter. At that moment, I knew for sure that someday I was going to miss that sense of humor. But we couldn’t stay here forever. I knew it. It’s hard to come home again, but it’s even harder to remain where you are.

“Here he is,” my mom announced. “This is Tory.”

He came out of the house, and the five of us looked at him for a minute.

“Son of a b***h,” said Arthur, under his breath.

I was amazed. Tory sparkled. Cute? Check. Bubbly? Check. Nice physique? Check. Charming? The charm in his eyes and smile was undeniable.

“Hi, guys. I’m really excited to try out for your band.”

And his voice was soft and low. Just like…. God, just like mine.

“We’d like to hear you sing, Tory,” said Tristan.

“I actually prepared the same song that Gahlay sang when he was first on the talent show.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said, nervously. “Don’t…”

I sighed. “Please don’t sing that song. Sing another one.” I felt the weight of history dismally repeating itself.

The guys nodded. “Sounds reasonable,” said Richard. “Why don’t you sing something by us? It will be a symbolic passing of the torch.”

“Ok,” said Tory, as good humored as ever. “Here it goes…”

He sang one of our famous hits, and we all glanced at each other, duly impressed. In fact, I know how much I had botched my initial audition, but my “charm” had won the day. This boy had charm, but he didn’t need it. He was a genuinely good singer.

“Well, I would say you passed the audition,” I said. He definitely had lead singer material.

“I did!? You mean you want me to join your band? Was it that easy?”

“Tory, the acceptance is the first step. But there is a lot of machinery that will take care of the rest,” I told him, trying to calm his excitement. I felt disingenuous, letting him get so excited about what he was about the embark on.

“Come on, Mr. Gloom, let him enjoy this moment,” said Lucas. “He’s got a whole new life ahead of him.”

“I know,” I sighed. “I know that only too well.” And then I put on a smile, because everyone else was smiling, and I was happy that everyone else was happy.

“Ah, my sweet boy,” said my mom, caressing my cheek. “Thank you for remembering your roots and giving back to us so much love.”

That was my mom.

 

Chapter 9: Auto-tuning the Artist

I remember reading somewhere that The Beach Boys practiced many times for their recording to make sure they sounded like they were all singing the right notes perfectly. Perhaps that is when it started – when the desire for perfection gave way to the creation of technology… machinery in a studio eventually became sophisticated enough to create a “perfect” sound; the artist no longer had to necessarily be a great talent, they just needed to show up. Maybe that’s when the focus started to change from talent to image; what was formerly the artist became the monochrome block of clay, while what were previously drone workers in the studio became the artists – masters of manipulation, creators of a “product”. Then once digital technology came into play, you didn’t even need to be versed in studio culture, you just needed to know how to use a piece of machinery that you could buy off your local store shelves. And suddenly everyone was performing. Everyone had become an “artist” capable of digitizing imperfections out of existence, and somewhere in all this frenzy the normal, flawed human being became something maligned. If you had not turned yourself into a perfect product, into a flawless piece of art, then you were worthless. It ranged from young teens in search of the perfect selfie or an adoring internet audience to… well, to us. So many times, in our songs, the nuances (flaws, if you will) of our singing was auto-tuned so much that all the emotion disappeared.

I felt as if these days I was mixing my metaphors. I looked it up on the internet – mixing metaphors is actually a thing. Using different symbols to develop a representation of something, and getting them all kind of blended together, so that no single one stands out as really descriptive. When I thought about it, Different Waves was just that – a jumble of mixed metaphors. We had tried to work together, and on the surface, we looked like we did; but we had originally auditioned as solo singers, and I think, throughout all this time, we never really gave that up. I think, I had been so used to being auto-tuned into a group, I lost track of who I really was. I was so young, I don’t know if I really ever got to become who I should have been. I envied all those music stars of the past who wrote from places deep within themselves, writing stories that expressed a perfect combination of their experiences, where they had been, and who they were at the point of writing the song. Reflection and examination, and finally, creation – those were the trademarks of so many amazing musicians. And then when they sang their songs, those songs also came from somewhere deep inside. There were so many songs that were surviving the test of time. The songs that me and the guys had recorded had been perfected through studio technology, so theoretically they should have lasted forever; but that perfection is exactly what turned them into something mundane and temporary. People were still doing slow dances to “Are You Lonesome Tonight” by Elvis Presley, whose particular brand of soulful singing made the song his own; but in 60 years, who was going to request a Different Waves song? Who was even going to remember our songs? Would all those young girls who had screamed for us eventually pass their Different Waves’ CD’s or digital downloads down to their children and grandchildren as some kind of treasure that needed to be preserved?

And then another metaphor… These past several years had been like a tunnel. A tunnel of auto-tuning our career. There is that expression, “the light at the end of the tunnel”, and I think it is meant to say that, no matter what you are going through, this rough period will pass, the darkness will dissipate, and you will find yourself walking toward a place of light, of wide-open spaces and freedom, and your joy will return. But what about the pre-tunnel life? Wasn’t that also a place of beauty and light? Some people are thrust into tunnels through no choice of their own, while others walk into them willingly. I know, way back there, I had a choice. I had stepped into the tunnel of my own choice.

I guess it should have come as no surprise that, when we brought this mixed group of musicians together, that the guys and I were the ones who would end up with friction. The 4 individual artists that we had brought together – Ian, Colin, Kevin and Tory – actually ended up working well together. They had different musical styles and perspectives, but somehow, when they got together, with their immense talent, their mutual love of music helped them work it out. And Tory – his personality was humbled in the face of these “older” and more experienced musicians. But that served to the good of the group, because he was a force for positive emotions, always finding the right words and emotions to have everyone laughing and willing to work in harmony. Colin was also a good chap, but he ended up having a little bit of an Irish edge; working with Tory, however, softened him up a lot. Ian was a great songwriter, and Colin was a great collaborator to bring some unique twists to his songs; and Kevin, with his musical ability, was able to enhance the arrangements of the songs for a larger audience. He also had a mind for business, so he knew how to get in tune with the tastes of the public. Needless to say, Richard had the most respect for Kevin. The great thing about Tory, that young kid, was what he brought musically; his singing voice was very strong, and he seemed to have a good instinct for the emotion the others were trying to express, which made the songs they had started to develop sound absolutely amazing.

But the guys and I fought. We had different goals for this group – it had been that way through this entire process of conception and recruitment. I made an offhand comment that we should have just gone outside and recruited the first 4 guys who had the right “look”, and I was dismayed when Richard said, “That’s the first piece of common sense you’ve spoken in a long time,” and Tristan said, “Yeah, I think we made a mistake in looking for people with a bit too much talent.”

The others were definitely trying to mold this group into an instant superstar power group, and I had said, “No, we want them to develop into a band that is impactful and whose music is meaningful.”

“Like what? U2?” Arthur had said. “What era do you think we are living in? What kind of fan base are you looking for?”

“Let me try to explain this in language you can understand, Gahlay,” Richard had said. “We’re making The Beatles 1963-1964. Whatever they do after we’ve accomplished that will be on their shoulders. But that’s our goal. I know that Ian is writing songs, but we already have some highly successful song writers working on pieces for them. And most of the songs they record on their first album will be those.”

“I don’t agree with that. These guys have a lot of talent, but also a lot of depth. They HAVE more than we HAD. We can’t crush that even for a year or two in the name of superstar profits.”

Lucas just sat there, but the other three just shook their heads at me.

“You need to get your head out of the sand. This is the 21st century.”

I can’t remember who said that, and it didn’t matter.

This was just one of many friction-wrought conversations we had, as we gave this band a space for developing their music/product, but also provided manufactured songs and industry-wise suggestions. On the surface, for this band, we all seemed unified and supportive, but on our own time, in our own private spaces, we argued for our own objectives. I knew that the other guys wanted to use studio technology to make something that would sell. 

It was a time I would rather forget. But how could I have forgotten? It became the main stamp of what we meant to each other as a band, when the fissures of our long-harbored musical ambitions and tastes started to break through. The bandmates could not comprehend how my old-style musical tastes had a place in the modern music marketplace, and I refused to give credibility to their tastes. 

Those several months were a hard time.

 

Chapter 10: The Business of Music Is… Business

“Gahlay, we need you to come to this address at 2pm this afternoon. We need to meet with the band.” Tristan had called me, and was speaking in a very businesslike tone. “Wear something stylish, do something nice with your hair; in other words, just come as yourself.”

I had no idea what was going on. I did as Tristan said, and at 2pm showed up where he had instructed. Lucas met me with a guilty expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, Gahlay, I wanted to tell you beforehand, but they made me swear not to.”

“Tell me what? What’s going on?” I saw several news cameras around, and there was a gathering of fans.

“They wanted to make an announcement to the entertainment press about the band we’re producing.”

“What?” My mouth went dry.

“I need some water,” I said.

“Sorry, Gahlay. I think it’s horrible that they wouldn’t tell you.” Lucas’ voice receded into the distance as I looked for a place where I could drink some water.

For what seemed like the millionth time in the past several years, I stood next to my bandmates, with cameras flashing and questions being thrown at us. I was more of a bystander to the process, as it seemed clear that the other four had already planned what they were going to say. With smiles, they talked about the mentoring and production of a new band, and that their first release would be soon. They wanted to give fans a heads up to look for this new band…. Essentially, we were giving this new band the Different Waves’ stamp of approval, so everyone else should, too. I know I must have had a lost look in my eyes, which unfortunately just added to my attraction. It wasn’t long before the press turned to me.

“Gahlay, what do you think of this new band? Will it be successful like Different Waves?”

They were hanging on my opinion. Would I play? I looked at the guys, who were all waiting for my answer.

“I think their talent is amazing,” I said honestly, with my most attractive voice possible. “With that talent, I’m sure they will be immensely successful.”

Screams emitted from the fans who had gathered. “Gahlay! We love you! We miss you!”

The guys all smiled at that. And so what could I do? I smiled the smile of an appreciative star, throwing crumbs of love to fans. I even waved.

“Thank you,” I said, looking directly at them. That was a bonus.

After the press gig, I went home and thought about what had just happened. I didn’t think about it too long before I got so angry that I decided I needed to take some action.

I texted the guys, “I want to meet with all of you right now. I don’t care where it is, as long as it is not a public place. And not my place.”

At first the guys tried to blow me off, saying they were too busy.

“If you don’t meet with me, then I will release a public statement of my own,” I texted.

Lucas showed up at my house an hour later. I was sitting at my piano, playing a song I had recently learned; it was a soft song, and I was trying to play it with sincerity, to ease my emotions. But then the events of the past months came rushing into my mind with the culmination of today’s press conference, and I ended up banging on my keys.

“I don’t think that kind of violence is going to make it onto our next album,” said a voice from several feet away, and there was Lucas standing there, watching me and laughing.

“Oh god, sorry, I didn’t realize you were there,” I said, blushing. “Please come in and sit down.”

“That’s ok, don’t apologize, Gahlay. We all have our moments. Usually I express my worst moments by downing a pint and throwing the bottle against a wall.” Lucas erupted in his Irish laughter, and I smiled in appreciation. I knew Lucas didn’t have too many of those moments – he was too good for that.

There were a few moments of silence, and then: “Gahlay, the guys said that they would meet at Richard’s house this evening, but I wanted to come over here to talk to you first.”

I felt a coldness in my body. The idea of talking to me sounded like what teachers did when they were about to punish you. We were all in our 20’s now, but I was still the youngest one of the band. Even though my following had probably contributed more to our popularity than anything else, I couldn’t help but feel that my standing with these guys was always tenuous. I wanted to feel confident, but I never had that confidence the other guys had.

Lucas looked around at the living room, as if he was seeing it for the first time. “You have such nice stuff. I love this room.” He looked around some more. “Ah, your stereo. Do you mind if I play something for you? I want you to hear something.”

I was confused, but said, “Yeah, sure.”

He plugged his music device into my stereo system, chose a song, then: “Listen to this.”

A piano and cello resonated a beautiful melody I had never heard before.

“What is this song?” I asked. “I’ve never heard it.”

“It’s a new song. But it has no name yet.”

Lucas must have seen the confusion on my face, because he finally explained, “This is a song I wrote.”

“But… What?... But…” I didn’t know how to express my surprise. “But… This is beautiful, Lucas.”

“Yeah. I wanted to play it for you. I wrote it for piano and guitar, but some friends of mine who are classical musicians asked if they could arrange it for their instruments and record it. I’m pretty proud of it.”

“But… It’s so beautiful.”

“More beautiful than Different Waves’ songs? Ha ha ha…. Yeah, I guess that could be true.” He came over to me. “Listen to this part at the end. It’s repeated after each chorus…. Right here.” And he got silent as I listened.

“It has words?” I said.

“Yes… This part is my favorite.” 

I listened to him as he sang, his voice becoming soft and soulful. 

“I never meant to make you leave… I didn’t want you to leave.”

Then the music faded away. “That is my favorite part,” he said.

I looked around for words. “But…” I said. “But… What is this song for?”

“It’s not a what. It’s a who. It’s for a girl I really loved… That I still love.”

“But… No, I mean… This is not Different Waves’ style. What is this song for?”

“Ha ha… What is the song for? It’s for the heavens, for love, for myself.” Still seeing the look in my eyes, he said, “Gahlay, we all had our dreams. Maybe I should stop saying “we”. I had my dreams. You had your dreams. Dreams don’t go away.”

He patted me on my leg, then got up and unplugged his music device from my stereo.

“Richard said that everyone can come to his home this evening,” he said, as he walked out of the room. I heard the front door close somewhere in my house. The notes of Lucas’s song lingered in the room for a while.

A few hours later, in the evening, we were all at Richard’s house. They waited for me to say something first, although they probably knew what I was going to say. After my talk with Lucas, I had wanted to be more considerate, but then I saw Richard’s facial expression as I walked into the room, and all the anger had rushed back. But it wasn’t anger toward just Richard. It was the frustration of the past 6 years.

“That was a nice little publicity coup you staged today,” I began. “What gave you the idea you had the right to do that with this new band?”

“What is up with you,” said Richard. The other guys were looking at me. “Isn’t all you have enough for you? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Yeah, man,” said Tristan. “You really need to get off it. We’re getting really tired of it.”

I looked at Lucas. He looked away.

“This is what prima donnas act like, guys,” said Arthur. “Get off your pedestal.”

“Pedestal? What the—” I bit my lip. I didn’t want to fight with Arthur. He had not orchestrated this press release.

I turned to Richard and Tristan. “What gave you the right to go out there and openly advertise the band? They are working on their sound, and when they come out with it, then people can decide for themselves whether they like it or not.”

Richard stood up. “You still don’t get it. What do you think we’re doing? We’re managing this band. We are band managers. Managers exert some type of control, including producing their sound. Didn’t we talk about how we as a band were going to use our experience to help mentor a new band? As the managers, that mentoring includes some responsibility, like getting the word out about the band. We can use our fame to open up an audience to them. Do you get it now?” Tristan and Arthur silently clapped.

“Our experience… Our experience…” I stuttered over my thoughts. “I thought we were going to use that to know exactly what NOT to do with this new band. They need their own experience, not a replica of ours. We were their doorway into the music industry, not their ball and chain.”

“You think you’re better than this? Better than us? Did you get where you are without us?” said Tristan.

“That’s not what I’m saying. But you’re treating them like a product. That’s what we were treated like. Can you really say that this is what you wanted?”

“Gahlay, are you out of it? What century are you living in?”

“They are not a product!” I yelled out loud.

Richard, Tristan and Arthur got really quiet and just looked at me with a patient detachment.

Finally, Lucas spoke. “Gahlay… This was supposed to be a unified effort, but you have fought us every step of the way. I really like you, but…. But… You have made it really hard. Whatever this band becomes in the future, that’s something they will decide. But for now, we are the managers, and we’re excited about helping develop their sound and popularity. Why can’t you just enjoy this moment and go with the flow?”

I looked at him and knew what he was suppressing, what he was giving up to show his support for the other guys. I slowly shook my head in answer.

“Lucas…” I couldn’t get the words out.

Lucas was tearing up. “Well then… I think… We think… You should leave.”

And just like that, I was gone. I spent the night in a state of mental numbness. I couldn’t figure out if I had failed or somehow succeeded in what I had been wanting to do.

The next day I visited the new band. I needed to give them a way out of what was happening to them. I needed to do that, or else only years later would they be able to look back and see (and regret) those moments where they relinquished their choice and control. They were so young. They needed at least one person to stand up for them and give them a choice. So, I told them that, if they felt like artistically they were being pushed away from their own vision, to contact me. I would give them freedom, no strings attached, to just explore their music. I had contacts in the industry – probably more so than the other guys. I guess I finally found the main advantage of my good looks. It’s what the guys were hoping I would never use – but I decided that there was no sense in fighting against it. People had grown rich off of my good looks – it was time to cash in those favors.

I don’t think it hit me until a few weeks later just how lonely I felt. The life I had known was severed from me; the guys, who had been such a constant fixture in my social environment, were gone. There were a million metaphors for the loneliness I experienced, but no single one of them encapsulated the full range of emotions I felt. Some days, it seemed like I was dissolving into the general populace; other days I felt as if I had been given a new life, a new chance to grow, but I had to push up through a world of concrete to reach the light. Some days, I just looked around me, and nothing seemed to come into my mind.

I had tried getting out and walking around one day, just to clear my mind, and didn’t wear all the disguise gear that I usually wore. I don’t know why I did that – I think I was just getting tired of wearing it. It wasn’t long before fans were coming up to me.

“Gahlay, oh my god! I love you! Please can we take a picture together? Please…”

“I’m not that guy,” I told them, extracting myself and trying to walk away. “I’m not him. I’m not that guy.”

There must have been something in my voice that was believable, because they all stood there, frozen, and just let me walk away.

One day I finally did something I had never done. I looked in the mirror for a close examination. Most of the time, a mirror had been a tool to merely reassure me of what I saw on everyone else’s faces – that I looked good. But this time I looked at the mirror and just searched for the flaws. It wasn’t long before I began to find them – then found a lot. Then I started to think how pitiful I was. I was rich, famous, and set for life at the age of 23… It was pitiful.

The person in the mirror started to cry. I reached out and felt the hard glass, trying to touch the tears on that guy’s face. But he just kept crying.

“Stop crying,” I said to him, “It’s going to be alright.”

As he looked back at me, an inspiration started to dawn on that face. And I knew things were going to change.

 

Final Chapter: A Song for You

A few weeks later, here I was, sitting at my piano, starting on a new journey of my musical life. It was a dreary Monday afternoon, and I could hear the London rain slowly tapping on my roof and walls… Today, of all days, felt like a curious mixture of sadness, nostalgia and poetry from The Carpenters and Paul Simon, and I felt my own stories starting to emerge from my soul – some in sadness, some with resignation… which was another type of sadness, I guess – but with emotional distance.

I stopped playing for a minute and thought about all the things about me and the band that had been in the press and on the internet. I remembered our initial rendering, our subsequent triumphs, and now our slow demise. But that story line was true in only small pieces; for the most part, it gave the public an amazing fairy tale. I was sure, years from now, I would watch it and also be entranced with the story, and dream of my time in this band as if I were some fair prince in a land long ago, far, far away. I thought with amusement how one of the music awards shows for this year had already booked the latest young and immensely popular boy band that were in the midst of their meteoric rise. Another fairy tale being created.

My life had been watched and my singing had been heard by so many people, but I felt sometimes that this was not my life, and these were not my songs. In fact, for these past years I had been hiding, and no one truly saw me or heard me sing. I needed to create something that lent some honesty to this person that had been hiding in plain sight. Thinking about how I saw this story, I found I had woven a tale that was also probably some parts truth and some parts legend, but perhaps that is how all of us see our lives as we look back. The details of my recollections were given a voice tinged by my own individual emotions, and I realized in this process that perhaps another fairy tale had been written inside my mind. But as my thoughts turned to my music, I saw more of myself in there than I had for a long time.

I tried a few keys, and realized that what I was making was a nice melody. I tried out another, and compared it, and decided on the first one. I sat there and breathed softly. This feeling of choice was something I had not experienced in a long time. What would the end result be of this melody? Finally, it was up to me.

Looking at the lyrics of this song, I was a little frustrated. I was still not too practiced in poetry. My first love had always been music, and I had always felt it inside myself and in my singing. Words, however, had always been difficult for me; there was something too final in the meaning of words, and they tended to destroy all the secrets that a musician may have wanted to keep locked inside his soul. Music gave impressions, but words tended to solidify those impressions. 

I sighed. I knew my lyrics were not going to expose too much of myself. Only the song would be true.

I ran my fingers along the keys, keeping time with the rain outside; I could feel the deeper meaning of the melody beyond the surface notes, and gradually the song was coming alive. I could hear it more clearly now.

“I finally wrote my own song for myself,” I whispered to myself. “Finally.”

I turned and looked out the windows of my living room doors that opened onto the garden. I looked past the garden, to the trees and skies beyond, and for the first time felt connected to everything on the other side of those windows.

Then I said softly, “I also wrote this for you.”


End file.
